SONG FOR THE NEW MOON

Up in her tower, enveloped in furs,
The old witchy lady is singing.

Casually offering blessings and curses,
She drives off her suitors in limos and hearses,
High in her silvery, crescent-shaped tower
The old witchy lady is sin.

Silently, slowly, the witch's face turns
To catch the last light of the evening.

In the next room, and across the dark water,
A sparkling young maiden, the old witch's daughter,
Is stretching her willowy limbs and her power,
She waits for her song to begin.