A gypsies song has called me
softly on an evening breeze
as though a ripple in an ancient pool
before the winter there could freeze
It asked me of my intention
and also of my love
that I might sing this song of mine
skyward, as to a lovely dove
I remember the images
of the gypsy wagons of old
filled with their mystery and terror
as my grandmother told
“They'll swoop down and get ya!”
she'd say with a gleam
and I would shiver and quake
hiding from gypsies in a dream
She told me not to worry
that dreams would pa** and go
off into the four winds
as gentle breezes blow
A long time has pa**ed
since I last quaked and dreamed
of gypsies in wooden wagons
while my grandmother gleamed