The gypsy

How I wish I were a gypsy, travelling through this big old land,

without future to direct me, without past to hold my hand,

free to wander dusty sideways, with the wind as my best friend,

sharing fruits in shady orchards, whilst the stranger's ear I lend.

I'd return the gift of nectar, as I see unspoken dreams

dance behind the shaded eyes, a desire that there gleams,

for a freedom never tasted, for a touch before unfelt,

and bewitched he settles back, for the hand this day had dealt.

He now listens to the words, as they flow forth from my lips,

possibilities arise, as he deviates from scripts

written by the hands of others and from blinkered visions old,

meant to tie him to the known, that would keep him in the mould.

Although brief the hours spent, in my time and in my care,

he discovers magic sights in the softness of my stare,

'ere returning to his life, 'ere I further wander through

dusty sideways in this land, for the next dream to renew.

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