TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

A day through the baggage-train. Cursing, sun-burned, laughing--: product of the dazzling, blinding land. The motley crew of boys comes strutting. Fighting and yelling. Prostitutes board, crimson hats over their long flowing hair . Beckoning. They are servants, their black eyes like wandering night. Seizing the prostitutes with lust, the boys tear clothing. They push and squeeze to the beat of a drum. And when they sense their poaching hands feebly resisted, the drum quickens, like they are playing in a dream, rumbling, crashing… And when they finish and light their lanterns in the night, a fantastic sight: wine, shining in the whores’ bonnets. Wine? Or is it blood? --Who can really say?