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