Catana the Gypsy is dead,
She’s dead.
Catana the Gypsy is dead.

She danced on the tables
In the smoke of our dreams,
Rat-a-tat tat.
Rat-a-tat-tat.

Her soul and her body
Flew out of our dreams
Wailing a passionate song.
Into the kitchen she sauntered,
Smiling over her shoulder,
Breathlessly whispering,
Sultry endearments
From lips warm and melting.

And then the pots banged,
And then the pots filled.
A symphony of incantations
In Urdu and Farsi,
Romani and Sanskrit,
Ceremonies of language,
Long gone and forgotten
That made the pots dance,
That made the pots sing.

The pots began rhythms
Of tin lids clanking,
Sizzling and bubbling.
Catana! Oh, Catana!
The kitchen is a wreck!
Your hennaed hand
Fragrant of sandalwood,
Wafting frankincense,
Has scattered a caravan of spices
All over the floor,
Heaps of
Fish tails and cabbages,
Peelings and parsley,
Catana!! What a fright!
What a storm of delight!

She smiled and laughed,
Lit candles, picked flowers,
Arranged them in a cheap, purple vase,
Pulled on her red, ruffled dress,
Served up love on platters,
Fragrant of magic,
Tasting of swaying hips,
Spicy with burning looks.

She offered golden wine,
A burnished elixir of mystery,
The shimmering glasses,
Like short, sweet kisses
That torture the memory
In a mirage of dessert.

Catana the Gypsy is dead,
She’s dead.
Oh, no! Oh my!
Catana is dead?
Yes, poor Catana is dead.

Some say Catana the Gypsy
Buried her broken heart
In a forest on the edge
Of a desert,
Casting her ashes
To the whirling wind,
Still wailing with the desert sands.

Some say Catana
Drowned her heart in
An ocean of tears,
Her phantom still wandering empty
In the cloak of despair.

But all say,
Catana the Gypsy is dead,
She’s dead.
Catana the Gypsy is dead.
Oh no! Oh my!
Catana the Gypsy is dead?
Yes, poor Catana is dead.

But, I know better.

Down some narrow street
Of an alfama long gone,
There are the rhythms of Fado,
Strange sounds of castanets
That draw us …familiar …
Not far away.

There’s a wail we know,
And a laughter we share.
A pattern of henna trailing up an arm,
Sandalwood and frankincense,
Sultry dark eyes,
Arms poised above trembling, full breasts.

It’s Catana!
What a flirt! What a wench!
In the swish of red taffeta dress,
Dancing on the tables
In the smoke of our dreams
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Rat-a-tat-tat!

Catana the Gypsy is alive.
She’s alive!
Catana the Gypsy is alive!

Marvelous Catana!
Mesmerizing Catana!
Catana alive!
Catana arisen!
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Rat-a-tat-tat!