A Lost Gypsy
*I have written various poems - on paper napkins, loose pages, or even the side of a book - and really, most of them capture bursts of emotion and unprocessed thoughts (so, many are statements I do not even mean). This one, to be honest, I am not too sure what it says about me. But, it is my favorite.
Years ago an editor friend commented, how can a gypsy be lost - they are nomadic anyway. I told her that feeling lost in this poem has nothing to do with the idea of a destination - one can roam aimlessly across the world and not feel lost. The moment I said that, I realized that was what I want: to roam aimlessly across the world and not feel lost in it.
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Drifting endlessly under sinister skies,
She yearns nothing but the passion that flies.
Committing to memory the gypsy's code,
She moves like a sparrow searching for an ode.
As she leaves her quarters she took a glance,
Of the man whom she gave one final chance.
But she has lost in the the game of deception,
Now she hopelessly looks for protection.
Finally she goes, sultrily committing to memory each body part,
Of what used to be the prison of her gravely battered heart.
Her quivering hands welcomed the promise of the chilling winter,
But her dying soul completely went asunder.
Alas! The maple door swiftly unbolts,
The border between sanity and vile faults.
As she walks, she steps into another universe,
Memories of euphoria flashed in reverse.
Above the piercing music of solitude her clanging bells sound,
Reminding spectators of a love not found.
The rabbi watches her with abhorrence,
And the fishmonger with pure indifference.
But never did they attempt to look,
In the eyes of the gypsy whose dignity they took.
Her past is as bleak as the night's hue,
Yet, to her, hope is as fresh as the morning dew.
The rustling of leaves tempts her to cry,
She realizes, now she'll explore the world and then die.
But a question still lingers,
Can she write her dreams with her own fingers?
Years ago an editor friend commented, how can a gypsy be lost - they are nomadic anyway. I told her that feeling lost in this poem has nothing to do with the idea of a destination - one can roam aimlessly across the world and not feel lost. The moment I said that, I realized that was what I want: to roam aimlessly across the world and not feel lost in it.
---------------------------
Drifting endlessly under sinister skies,
She yearns nothing but the passion that flies.
Committing to memory the gypsy's code,
She moves like a sparrow searching for an ode.
As she leaves her quarters she took a glance,
Of the man whom she gave one final chance.
But she has lost in the the game of deception,
Now she hopelessly looks for protection.
Finally she goes, sultrily committing to memory each body part,
Of what used to be the prison of her gravely battered heart.
Her quivering hands welcomed the promise of the chilling winter,
But her dying soul completely went asunder.
Alas! The maple door swiftly unbolts,
The border between sanity and vile faults.
As she walks, she steps into another universe,
Memories of euphoria flashed in reverse.
Above the piercing music of solitude her clanging bells sound,
Reminding spectators of a love not found.
The rabbi watches her with abhorrence,
And the fishmonger with pure indifference.
But never did they attempt to look,
In the eyes of the gypsy whose dignity they took.
Her past is as bleak as the night's hue,
Yet, to her, hope is as fresh as the morning dew.
The rustling of leaves tempts her to cry,
She realizes, now she'll explore the world and then die.
But a question still lingers,
Can she write her dreams with her own fingers?
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