Somewhere beyond this vast universe
of glittering things
that are unworthy of our worship,
there lives a girl, a woman,
whose skin speaks to me
of wheat and gold and dark honey;
and there she is, there I see her,
in the soft fire of her red dress.

Somewhere beyond this barren age
in which machines
have rid the world of melody,
there lives a girl, a woman,
whose hands still summon
the old acoustics of the trees and rivers;
and there she is, there she waits for me,
in the sensual embers of her red dress.

Somewhere beyond the unreal songs
of a plastic planet,
full of knowledge but bereft of feeling,
there lives a girl, a woman,
whose hips are tuned to the dark
rhythms of some primeval drum;
and there she is, there I see her,
in the coiling flame of her red dress.

Somewhere beyond the shrine
where the veil of the goddess
was rent by the racing hearse of progress,
there lives a girl, a woman,
whose lips invigorate authentic beings
whose songs are their own lives;
and there she is, there she waits for me,
in the smouldering embers of her red dress.