Rana Gorgani’s candle

This candle is inspired by a poem that has accompanied Rana Gorgani since her first dance steps on the international scene:

PERSIAN DANCER

by Anna de Noailles

Persian lady, in pink dress,
Who dance in the cool valley,
Turn to my morose soul
Your doe eye, dark and long.

Please listen to my complaint:
I was also made to dance
On the tulip and hyacinth
Let your feet come to caress.

A gold stocking on your leg
Shines like a network of sunshine,
And your whole young being blazes
Near a vermeil branch.

This beautiful solitary shrub,
Where you wrap your arm,
Is on fire like a lamppost,
And perfumes like a citron.

Show me the sweet alley
Which leads to this charming country;
What is the name of the valley
Where do you dance madly?

Who was your lover, which poet?
What a beautiful merchant, what an enameller?
What a child who threw his head away
In your flower-colored knees?

When you slept on the grass, inert
The butterfly in your collar
Was he sinking his wing, green
Like the flames of alcohol?

What gods did you serve? The shiny water?
The sweet sun son of Thetis?
Or the dazzling meadow
Snow and forget-me-nots?

Did your hands hold the reins
From a black elephant from Iran,
Including Indian bells
Were the saffron cover hitting?

Under the cypress of the meadow,
Where the silver pheasant runs,
Did you listen to the bell
Soldiers going through the summer?

At the golden gates of the terrace,
Did you put your forehead too heavy
At a time when desire is gathering
On the heart studded with love?

As I see from all your gestures,
To your secrets that can be seized,
To all your heavenly mines,
That you only love pleasure

What did it matter to you, fierce angel,
Ardent, weak and voluptuous,
Which, far from thy sweet mouth,
The wise old men said among themselves.

During their dreary walk,
On the banks of the Tigris, in summer,
Rolling their jade rosaries,
They cursed voluptuousness.

They said that, since everything passes,
Since being is like the wind,
It is necessary to meditate in space,
Under the plane trees of a convent.

“But you, a dancer with light delirium,
Honey, lily and gold cake
You laugh and disdain to read
Their manuscripts where one falls asleep.

Let their worn bodies rest!
But you, when the nightingale
Gorges on rose wine
And falls dazed on the ground,

When, under the white rosehip,
In the thick carpet of chervils,
The moon fills with divine ardor
Wolves, lynx and roe deer,

You rush under the beautiful cedar,
You caress his black branches,
You dance, grave as a priest,
Hot as animals!

Thou shalt sing, and thy cantilena
Burst forth, leaped, like a jet of water,
Your whole soul wanders
From the black valley to the black hillside!

You say it’s time to live,
That the moment of living is short,
That your God wants us to get drunk,
Perfume, wine and love!

You say the earth is joyless
For those in the tomb,
That desire must be spelled
Like a cruel and beautiful vulture!

You say, sobing dancer,
Mixing tears with your call,
What is the breathless hour
Where the universal blood boils!

Joyful and desperate voice,
Oh what do you want to get?
By your humble and sacred anguish,
Who seems to moan or neigh?

You sing about life, and about life!
But, O thirst for immensity,
I know your supreme envy
Is to die of voluptuousness…