Wherever she wanders,
Leaving her scent of lavender
And orange peels as she passes by,
She dares not look at anyone directly
Through the veil of her raven hair.
Their voices whisper worriedly
To each other:
È una strega!
Siehst du die Hexe?
Mais, c’est une sorcière…
The witch has arrived.
They all want to carve a slice out of her
Just to have a piece of magic to light up
Their dreary and dismal lives.
How can she be happy in refusing their
Social norms, rejecting husband and children?
The teenagers spread rumors about town
That she cooks up worms, crow’s feet,
Eye of newt, and brains of the hare
Because they know she won’t share
Her sumptious recipes of apple tarts
And vegetetable stews, tea brewed with
Love from herbs foraged in the forest,
Never buying into the market gruel.