These phantasms bordering on prayer 

Of some lost changeling with kohl eyes 

The disarray, melancholic and hellish beauty, still tempestuous 

Wild eyed and without the doctors reason and rule 

Because as you say of the ancient revellers, we may be satyrs now and again 

Midnight talk of callings and ancestors, and the earth so souled and alive for us 

the sea goes down into our very depths. 

the szechenyi baths, you rising like a merman and we babble the chaos magic that is my own poetry and paint. 

Fierce tears may run that we might be free

free to fall under the curtain of madness

These dark moon dresses embroidered at the hem with all your ancient symbols multicoloured and the verse in gold 

Our mutual fluency in the lore and myth of the folk 

The spirits of the dead, the ghosts that circle me forever 

Let’s plead to the night for good and gifting ones and ancestral charms 

You too circle me like a caim now 

And the wooden stereo plays it’s ever-flowing music, always on time 

Many lovers, many entanglements 

Keeping myself hazy and drifting into the dark feminine 

In the evening we make paprikás and you read me the mirror of my heart, the Persian women poets.

By morning we arrive like an orientalist painting, bewitched by life, the cornflower blue gypsy skirt and the silver zills.

a journey to the sea to seek her enigmas and sing me to slumber your old dream-born songs.