I saw her on a shaking stage –
an oblivious singer from a burnt theatre –
she was holding her strict microphone
with exceptional fingers, or was it the light?
People were rocking on awkward chairs –
jumping out of taxis into a purple night –
sipping uneven wine and drowning
in her abandoned voice and sad smoke around.
And either religious tears rolled down their cheeks
or jumpy laughter filled the room –
there she was – turning her notes
into wooden years and stone centuries,
wearing that ancient dress of hers…
or was it the light?