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In search of the desert witch, the shaman-woman,
Forget the archetypes, forget the dark and petrified profile,
Do not examine the clouds
Packed on the horizon, violet and green,
For her image, do not chase
The ready-made abstraction, do not gaze at symbols,
As long as you want her without a face, without a scent
Or voice, as long as she does not squat
To piss or scratch herself, as long
As long as she does not snore under her blanket
Or grin when she early in the morning
Grabs the stone-cold millstone,
As long as she does not have her own peculiar face,
With light bags under her eyes or with a stripe
Topaz shining in the black
Of an eye, as long as she does not limp
As long as you try to simplify her meaning
As long as she only symbolizes power
She is kept helpless and conventional
Her true power fled back, further into the past in,
We cannot touch or name her
And silenced by those who need her
