Sunday, April 7, 2013

The StoryTeller

Contrary to what has been said
She picks up the pieces and will not stay
She wears a dusty faded skirt
And puts her earings and bracelets away
She rolls her head inside a scarf
She hides her dark hair there from sight
She walks barefoot upon the red road
She sleep at day, travels by night
And when some lonely fire spied
She makes her way quiet as a mouse
Or when approaching a storm marked inn
Or when sojourning at a lonely house
She makes her presence known afar
The soft tinkling of her silver bells
A place to sleep and some food to eat
In exchange for the stories she tells
Then comes the satchel and from it the powder
Then comes the smoke and the smell of flowers
And then comes the voices that are not her own
Then comes the drum and the shaker and the bone
She tells them not to fear her tales
And spins the web ever tighter still
They cannot leave anymore than a fly
Caught in a web struggles with all its will
Her tale rises and every seat is on edge
The ending is near, their hold their breath
The tale is ending and takes a sudden dark twist
Scattered with bodies and the angel of death
And then it is over and she gets up to leave
They lie here and there, some together some apart
She finishes eating and wipes her mouth
Then stomps out the fire in smoke and sparks
She carries on her journey towards the sea
She keeps telling stories and leaving the dead
She picks up the pieces and goes on her way
Contrary to what has been said

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