Poison the well where three wild lime trees grow;
tear down the jasmine planted long ago;
sell all my cattle, shoot the blind white horse;
have the red guard dog and the black put down.
Tell my five daughters, if they should return,
their mother doesn't live here any more;
and tell my son, the one they call Don Juan,
his father has sold up and left the land -
bury my heartache deep beside the creek;
cast my unravelled curses to the wind...
A rumour shakes the palm fronds like a fever:
the mistress of these lands has lost her mind,
and torn the bitter fairytale of years to shreds,
that nobody might question what they read.