un amico inglese mi ha dedicato questa poesia

There is a women in the woods, some guess living alone.
She can talk my language, as well as her own,
 an ancient venetian dialect.
Some say she is a real life living domestic witch.
Others try to claim her as their pornographic bitch.
I believe she lives with her young daughter out there,
In the woods,
 alone,
 but together. 
A mother, in a wooden lair.
She sows her own clothes, can grow her own feasts and has a saddened glare.
Her hair is dark, tangled,
and long, so long.
Wild, as the eyes deep in Her stare.
For she has loved, but not been loved.
Apart from her daughter, who is with her there.
She is surrounded by many academic intelligent books,
And if she ventures out, she can still have her Mediterranean sensual looks.
But men do not see a woman still fair.
So she hides, 
 and waits.
And that haunts my mind,
 and heart,
 and soul.
Alcohol has left her bare,
Alcohol could lead me there.
To the woods, 
To find the women,
 they now say is a witch.
And some try to claim her as their bitch.
But I know, she has such a beautiful smile.
And her heart must long to beat faster
for a while.