The Treasure, by Maria Schrup Peterson, 2003

She sought and searched a mystic one

and in him for the key to a treasure chest

of magic, mysteries and miracles forgotten

and knew it buried and feared it rotten

and knew in his gypsy soul it rest.

She knew it! And like some pirate bold,
plunged reckless into waters deep.

How deep she dove for ancient gold,

into currents swift and dark and cold,

into waves their raging course to keep.

His eye sparkled with the gypsy gleam,

as he drew her onto an ancient galleon,

as he sat along at the captain's table

enchanter of this black-haired siren

and weaved the weave of dreams.

Entranced under moonlit, darklit skies

by ancient, steep and starlit eyes,

she, wrapped in a cloak of the weave of dreams
was chained, ensnared in the lie of lies.

She sought by means of a celestial dance
freedom far from this trance.

struggling, writhing, all in vain,

she appealed High Heaven for a glance

of mercy for surcease of pain.

She had sought for a key to a gypsy treasure
and tricked and fooled by its gleam

wished now to gain by simple measure

release from dark and damning pleasure;

to waken from these darkened dreams

and treasure, alas, her soul's esteem.

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