Tuesday, October 21, 2014


I am a gypsy, I see firelies.
Around me they twist and turn, like smoke at Palestine.
Drifting from space to space, they carry light.
I cannot help wonder. Does the wind guide you? Or you the wind?

We met on a monsoon evening, in the city that never sleeps.
You were lost in darkness, tremors the wind brought,
Scared in a new surrounding, yet with excitement hard to hide,
You had seen me sing the songs, of the far away land.

I came to you like a firefly, for light I did bring to you.
With wonder you had listened to sonnets and wits, gifts I had received,
From places that you yearned to visit.

But in our conversations, I fell in love and you fell in awe.
There the mistake. For is it not wrong for the gypsy to fall in love?
Like stone eyed Franky says, 'Do they even know what love mean?'

Once struck, what can be more lethal than love?
It transforms your thoughts, it plagues your reason.
Your life becomes still, the purpose definite, to please her beautiful eyes.
You are no more a firefly, the restless and the wild,
That lit up Cusco for the Incas, on their way up the Piccu.

Love they do, for we carry songs and stories from a world they dream.
From the distant lands, spirits we bring that makes wall speak.
But when we leave, the gypsies, nobody feels sad, no tears are shed.
We belong nowhere, we carry wisdom around the world.
But we will not be stopped, never asked to stay, nobody is a Jose Arcadio Buendía.

We shall part, no words need be exchanged, our existence a mere imagination.
Constructed in a fool's mind, who for a brief time, forgot what he was,
And lived in an illusion, a dream, that only love can conjure.
Look around, there is no one who wants us. Not even you.

I am a gypsy, I see firelies.
Green to yellow, yellow to blue, they constantly change,
Like the new moon sky, waltzing to the polar lights.
Sometimes I wonder, do lights guide you? Or you the lights?

I go away today, to entertain another world like all gypsies do.
It was never meant to be. Through the oceans I shall sail,
Mountains I shall pass. But at the town across the Table mountains,
I shall sing a new song, to those curious cross eyed wonderers,
How the pale waters of the Maggiore, or the winds at Wudang,
Could not wipe away, that feeling from this Gypsy's mind.


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