Her eyes black as night in a pallid face
looked unearthly. She looked up at me.
A smile twisted her face. The electric gleam
tore apart the veil of her conscious dream.
Underworld knowledge made it real in the court
shut in by mystery walls where she lifted her arm.
There was cruel recognition under a towering sky.
The obscene beyond had the power of lightning like white fire.
Instinct and faith and the all-mighty will
made her look like a priestess sunk in deep trance.
She, woman-loving, loved her. She was real and frightening.
With all her men dead she was beautiful, a subtle widow.
Her servants came with silk robes, shawls and scarves.
Oriental magic and dancing emotions,
passion, desperate, dangerously free
were the essence of her female recklessness.
Two girls and three witches in a cautious pause.
The girls drew near through a strange, soft black dusk.
“Do you think they are first class?”, asked the magician
and I stood on the other side of the wide crossing.
Lyrics & Music: Michel Montecrossa, © Mira Sound Germany