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!