Gypsy Tears

In the shadow of the forest, 'midst beechen boughs, Where whispers and rustles intertwine, Flames flicker and dance, casting colorful shapes, Upon leaves and ancient stones. The gypsies gather, a mobile tribe, Eyes gleaming, hair flowing wild, Nurtured by the sacred Nile’s waters, Bronzed by Hispania’s southern blaze. Around the blazing fire, in lush green, Men recline, untamed and bold, Women crouch, preparing the feast, Busy filling the old goblet. Legends and songs echo in the circle, Like Spain’s blooming, vibrant gardens, And the wise old woman, her audience rapt, Chants magical spells for hardship and peril. Already weary from singing, they sway, Lulled by the night wind’s inviting slumber, Seeking paradise in dreams, Leaving behind their familiar homeland. The eastern sky fades to white, Their nocturnal forms etched in memory, And in the quiet of the night, Gypsy tears fall, unbidden. The eastern sky fades to white, Their nocturnal forms etched in memory, And in the quiet of the night, Gypsy tears fall, unbidden. [fade out]] [end]