Isadora Sits

Isadora sits in her castle on the moon
She has borrowed Diana's sword and
Ariadne's loom
She weaves her hands into the threads
That the Neriads have dropped
From weaving Triton's lullabies 
And darning Medusa's holey socks!

Isadora is a flower that no man 
Has ever touched
Her eyes are blind to sadness
And the horror of the clocks
That descend into madness
In Town Squares and marketplaces
She has no need for compassion:
Her soul is bound by Athena's bloody laces.

Isadora knows not peace, 
She knows not anything, 
Other than the songs 
That to her the muses wail and sing
She is waiting gladly for her time to shine
She is her mother's madly, truly, forever
Wintertime.

Do not dare to feed her from the fruit
Of any tree.
She learnt her lesson eons ago
And feeds just like the flea
Upon the blood of sanctuaries
And the juices of the ages
That are fed to her on a silver spoon
By Egypt's solitary mages. 

Do not ask me to tell you
What it is she wants,
She barely knows herself
The essence of her fountains
And her fonts,
That the poets of the ages
Have dipped unto their ladles!
She is the Muse of Angels
Who put their hands onto
Human cradles. 
She is the Mother of the Light
She is the Enchantress of the Darkness
She has the teeth of Zion
Clasped around the Old Town's
Shattered glasses!

Isadora sits in her castle on the moon
She passes me Diana's sword
And puts my hand onto the loom!