The Gypsy Woman Poem by jan oskar hansen

When I left the supermarket she sat in the shade
under the balustrades her skeletal hand cupped
and outstretched, too tired for words; usually
I gave her the change I had in my pocket, but
that day I had none. She kept sitting there to
nightfall, till the supermarket closed; chilly night
even, though it was May. In the morning they
found her dead, leaning against the edifice of
plenty and no one knew her name; feather light
her corps, had it been a windy day, it might have
blown away. Roma, this cursed race doomed to
wander across foreign fields and often hanged.
Sing a sad song for me Gypsy, tell me why they
hate you so and why you can’t return to El Rocio