Hands of my neighbors, a flame flickers on the round table, to join each other.
The dark comes, no winds there are, a flame goes out.
The time has come, in this night, she is possessed by it.
What we can hear, lower than the bottom of the earth, in a low voice speaks.
When the spirit has gone, leaves a massage as it's riddle, says R-O-S-A-B-E-L-L.