'Whist, is what Mammy said,
As she whisked us off to bed.
Usually we'd go quietly.
But a gypsy woman sat
At our table,
Reading tea leaves,
Pouring prophecies.
Guests were few,
And she, I knew,
To be a special one.
She saw dark clouds in cups.
My sisters,
Past the tender age,
Stayed up longer,
Heard her bray:
'Tall dark men
Are on their way.'
I pricked my ears
Up stairs,
I tried to put both
On the vent,
Both of them
Were forward bent.
Just then my father
Climbed the stairs;
I saw the dark mop
Of his hair.
He was tall,
He wasn't humming.
No one else foresaw
His coming,
But I made it to bed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem