Abishag
Abishag, slim youthful, warm Abishag. Shout into the street: King David is not yet dead. All King David desires is to sleep — and they do not let him. Already Adonijah with his gang shout the crown from off my hoary head. Fat Bathsheba blesses me with eternal life — and with a sly smile she watches for my last words .
Sleep, my King. The night is still. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, little, village born Abishag. Hurl my crown into the street, snatch it whoever will. Faded power wails in my every finger. Over you alone does lord the royal repulsive old age. David the King has lost all his servants. He is left with but a single maid .
Slumber, my King. The night is dead. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, sad, little Abishag. A tiny kitten thrown into the cage of the old toothless lion. 'Tis decreed that my days shall expire on the bosom of your wretched, young years. My victorious battles are but sloughs of blood in my memory. Yet not remote the day when virgins sang my praises .
Rest, my King. The night is still. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, little, ruthful Abishag. Fear is coursing through all my limbs. Can one through sloughs of blood stumble on heavnly paths? At the parting of the ways will the gentle songs of my pious moments stand me in good stead? Abishag, surely song is truer than sin .
Dream, my King. The night is dead. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, slim, youthful, warm Abishag. Shout into the street: King David is not yet dead. But King David wishes to die and they do not let him. Toss away my crown — snatch it whoever will. Let Adonijah or Solomon rule over the people and I in my last days over you with my replusive old age .
Sleep, my King. The day will soon dawn. We are all thy slaves .
Sleep, my King. The night is still. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, little, village born Abishag. Hurl my crown into the street, snatch it whoever will. Faded power wails in my every finger. Over you alone does lord the royal repulsive old age. David the King has lost all his servants. He is left with but a single maid .
Slumber, my King. The night is dead. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, sad, little Abishag. A tiny kitten thrown into the cage of the old toothless lion. 'Tis decreed that my days shall expire on the bosom of your wretched, young years. My victorious battles are but sloughs of blood in my memory. Yet not remote the day when virgins sang my praises .
Rest, my King. The night is still. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, little, ruthful Abishag. Fear is coursing through all my limbs. Can one through sloughs of blood stumble on heavnly paths? At the parting of the ways will the gentle songs of my pious moments stand me in good stead? Abishag, surely song is truer than sin .
Dream, my King. The night is dead. We are all thy slaves .
Abishag, slim, youthful, warm Abishag. Shout into the street: King David is not yet dead. But King David wishes to die and they do not let him. Toss away my crown — snatch it whoever will. Let Adonijah or Solomon rule over the people and I in my last days over you with my replusive old age .
Sleep, my King. The day will soon dawn. We are all thy slaves .
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