You seem like a hard-working woman As I pass your country door now With a hand on your hip Slightly breathless You give me a humourous bow And I am a weary stranger I return the gesture with a smile Then something locks between us And my soul is yours For a hundred years And a mile Now your door is a place of worship Where serenga and lavender grow When you step forward from the darkness Your shadow moves so slow With a hand on your hip In the stillness The summer air is alive And you have the air of a goddess And there is nothing In this world I cannot give