The Countess' dream

No one can tell for sure

If it's the silky, seductive Reine Margot

That drives wandering swans

To Chenonceau.

Surely, her graceful harpsichord playing

Resembles the flock's precise yet delicate approach,

As it sews the white high clouds

Looking for the summer.

Or, it may just be that underneath their peaceful,

immaculate plumage, lie blacken hearts

Craving some traces of poisonous ink

That Catherine de' Medicis left on her remaining plotting letters.

Each wing beat holds either passion or deceit

As they propel themselves closer and closer.

And will they stay, just rest, or fly beyond the castle?

As these birds know no boundaries,

Freely coming and going, no matter the landscapes or the heritages nobility has built below.

Their comfort lies, perhaps,

On an unknown hidden Siberian patch of swampy tundra,

Where no one will ever be able to attach

Lyrics to their journey.