The Dance before the Ark

Henri Franck

1912

IV

The fire of joy in solitude
. . . And since in vain I have made this journey,
The ground giving way to my burning steps,
Let me embrace this ardor
In abstract revelry

* * *

1

Consuming the universe and my soul,
The fire transfigured what it burned;
Above the world where its light was shining,
Far above me, its seeming torch,
With no hesitation, its flame arose.
Oh flame in the abstract, oh warmth in the void!
As I pass, no object reflects me.
No longer have I mirror or food,
No longer brazier or limits.
Oh lovely radiance, measureless warmth,
At last you reign in your freedom supreme,
Nothing sustains you or dampens your fervor.
You feed on yourself, your ardor is free,
You rule yourself and all is within you.
Oh pure flame, immortal and free,
Sovereign splendor, bliss with no vertigo,
Tireless dance, oh effortless beauty,
No lies in this kingdom, no call for prestige.
Nothing’s left of myself or of others,
I am the respite where fervor has shone,
I, with it, am alone;
It belongs to me and surpasses me,
The burning blood, I, of its passionate heart,
The beating of its wings!
I am the song of a divine violin;
The voice lifting its music is mine,
The chosen bow, a beautiful hymn,
I transcend!
Perfect fullness, delicious marvel,
After much torment, at last the port;
With no vestal virgins standing guard,
Death’s shadows no longer cool my ardor;
The brave soldier takes the town,
He has entered Jericho;
Tired traveler, you at last may lie down;
In voluptuous splendor, forget the bare fields;
Forget the lands with no water or trees,
But only mirages and echoes.
I keep the pure, incorruptible flame;
No longer a child playing games,
I am one who at last holds the truth.
Truth is zeal in the absence of fancy,
The fervor that nothing can vanquish,
The rising joy in darkened skies,
The pleasure of fire with no recompense,
The crowning pleasure of one’s existence,
To be one who lives!
To be one who heeds not the universe
Or movements of a fictive soul,
But revels in glory all his own,
Without hopes or reversals.
Nothing can touch me now; may my fire
In its solitary pride
Not burn the heavenly bliss
On any God’s altar.

2

If the ark where you thought to find law is empty,
Nothing is real but your dance:
It endures forever, having no object.
Dance for the desert and dance for the space
Like a prophet in the desert,
Dance, with kingly majesty,
In silence eternal.
Oh transports of the agile dancer,
Your arm launches javelins;
Faster and faster, never swooning,
Higher and higher:
Your leaps, your bounds, your cries,
The turning on your toes,
Fast as a young Numidian
Your shimmery stirring,
Oh flame, oh arrow, oh brilliant bird,
Oh falcon unerring.

Translated by
Michele McKay
Aynesworth
.

Credits

Henri Franck, La danse devant l’arche [The Dance before the Ark] (Paris: Nouvelle revue française, 1912), pp. 112–16.

Published in: The Posen Library of Jewish Culture and Civilization, vol. 7.

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