she sings and I am dead
the voice of an angel, ethereal celestial being
her shoulder length straight black hair
pulled back neatly giving her that refined old world look
large colorful decorative earrings hang elegantly
her lute draped over one of her sloping shoulders
her twisted rope-like necklace, tight black pants and boots
some kind of italian renaissance song I believe
or maybe the spanish renaissance I’m no linguist
melody and words by someone wearing funny clothes
sitting at an old rustic table in a sidewalk cafe
in a long ago time maybe in verona or palermo or barcelona
while drinking a vintage bottle of wine
picked from the finest grapes under a sky so blue
and a light landscape painters would have loved
to paint for its purity and heavenly quality
I don’t know what the lyrics mean but it doesn’t matter
she could sing the phone book and it would sound regal
I wonder why she picked this obscure music to learn and play
not something that appeals more to the masses
but then again the masses are asses, this is too classy for their tastes
tonight we’re in an italian restaurant off the strip
two dozen tables or so half filled
half eaten lasagna- manicotti or spaghetti
that isn’t as good as what I make at home
but it really isn’t important
I’m here to hear my beautiful angel sing yo me soy la morenita
and some other songs that I don’t know the name of
but I marvel at the marvelous amore I’ve found
