On a cold, early November night,
Mimmo, Martino, and I climbed to the top
of the Norman rock tower of Castelmezzano.
In the green lips of the trees
the Dolomite mountain peaks of Basilicata ,
big, broken, splintered teeth spiked into the sky,
and a thin cresent moon.
Bright beams of white light from the lumiere show
turned on by the Mayor especially for us,
gloriously illuminated the mountainsides.
Fog blew in from the blackness,
clouds rolled in below
and swirled around us,
and exposed briefly by a beam of light,
fled quickly, slipped back into the pitch black,
stumbled up and danced down the stone slopes,
and rushed in to touch, embrace and welcome us.

Hidden inside the fog and mists
were witches,
each a secret to herself,
the white witch with the curved knife and the bella figura,
the red witch made of ruby with a voluptuous body,
the blue witch with an owl face rode a donkey with three legs,
the yellow witch wore a ball gown of gold brocade
and held a mongoose vomiting jewels,
and the green witch with a hawk face rode a camel
and scorpions came from her fingertips,
and the beautiful witch with a smiling face
held a lamp of the sun and moon,
the witches of fog ate the witches of snow,
and witches dressed in black rode white dogs,
and danced, flew, chased, glided, and leaped over,
and long dives from life to death,
and witches who were rotting in hell
swarmed, screeching with joy.
They were happy to see us.

The witch Santa Meurte was a skeleton
with a grim-reaper sickle and a blood curdling grin.
She usually wore black,
but occasionally liked feather boas and sequin gowns,
and big fake jewels and necklaces,
and rings on each bone finger.
She chain smoked cigarettes and joints,
drank whiskey straight, and snorted drugs.
She had no flesh, but loved sex and bliss.
She danced exquisitely the criminal tango.
Santa Meurte answered the prayers of the poorest
and most outcast,
people in trouble adored her,
whores and drug dealers,
car thieves, burglars, and con-artists sought her protection,
people prayed for the miracle of money for food,
and the lost and abandoned,
every single one who asked her help, she helped.
Santa Meurte was the wish-fulfilling witch.

The witch of poetry was Sarasvati
and her sister Laxmi was the witch of wealth.
When Sarasvati wrote great poems
and sang beautiful songs
and filled the world with music and wisdom,
and became famous and adored
for her brilliance, beauty, and compassion,
her sister Laxmi got very jealous, and angry,
and did the most terrible things.
She stole the cash and property,
lied, invented false gossip,
had her excluded,
and had the lawyers sue
blocking everything from happening;
she punished her for her success,
sweet revenge.
That is why poets never have money.
Poets are poor sisters,
with great clarity and great bliss.

Put your ear to stone
and open your heart to the sky,
put your ear to stone
and open your heart to the sky,
put your ear to stone
and open your heart to the sky,
put your ear to stone
and open your heart to the sky.

Ugly and beautiful witches,
wrathful and peaceful witches,
increasing and magnanimous witches,
are the outer displays of wisdom,
witches of water, witches of earth,
witches of fire, witches of air,
witches of space
are the inner wisdoms,
witches of fabulous sex in the union of great bliss
are the secret wisdoms,
and witches of great compassion and emptiness
are the innermost wisdoms.

Mimmo, Martino and I climbed back down the rocky mountain path,
as if feathers were under our feet,
and we walked down below the clouds,
on steps cut in the rock toward the medieval stone houses
that clung to the edge of the mountain peaks;
and thousands of modulating waves of sweet sound
sang in silence.