From the foam of the sea, all daughters are born;
Like Sarah, at the mouth of the Petit Rhône.
She is born by the Mediterranean,
Each year again, in May,
Black as an Egyptian she is, and holy,
The handmaid of the Marys, patron saint of the gypsies,
Cast out wife of Pilate, Queen of the Camargue.
She is repudiated and adored,
Hung with kitschy clothes,
With brocade and cloth in the colours of gypsy love.
She is raised out of the foaming water on a litter
And borne between a guard of honour on white horses,
In the midst of a colourful throng of gypsies,
To the subterranean chapel where she is venerated;
With but one hope,
That in spite of everything she will comfort
The disgraced, the helpless, the suicidal.
For all that we must endure is determined by an alien will,
As Europa's fate brought her to Crete,
A destination prophesied by Aphrodite in a dream.