Damp walls and a smell of mushrooms,
an oil lamp's uncertain flame,
suddenly hushed by the rain.

There, she dwells and dreams.
until she's ready to create,
giving birth to ideas
that she feeds - just like children -
and then leads to the world outside.

She knows nature
because she lives with it,
observing
as much as she is observed:
it's part of her pact.

She wasn't born this way,
but solitude is now
the only friend she trusts.

Alone, she finds remedies
from flowers and plants,
roots and barks,
treasured to make tinctures
in solutions of grape alcohol.

But if you meet her
at daylight,
be ready for a fright -
if your head is as full of prejudice,
as her life is rich with experience -.

You may be scared by the scars
on her skin -
creased like old papyrus -
they are the writing
that show her suffering and abuse.

An outcast, she was punished,
for disobeying the laws of men.
She knew she had a mission,
meditating and healing
to master the forces within.

Years ago, she was beaten
by those - sick with bigotry and hatred -
who left her half-dead.

So many miles from home,
in the dark forest,
- a witch or a martyr? -
she managed to stay alive.

Today many people come
from faraway villages,
with their luggage made of pain,
to be cured, body and soul.

In the heart of the laws of nature
she no longer feels misplaced.