Through a Gypsy's eyes
When you see a gypsy,
you see all of the sparkle and flair.
Your eyes grow wide in wonder,
as you watch them dance with their long curly hair.
You see the belly dancer,
the fortune teller,
the tightrope walker that seems to float on the air.
When the carnival is over you go home without a care,
thinking of the wonderful time that you had at the fair.
You were'nt really there.
You saw what your eyes wanted to see,
and that's just the way that it's supposed to be.
You're not supposed to see the fortune teller as a mother,
or that maybe the reason that she's telling fortunes is for college money for her eldest brother.
The tight rope walker may be having trouble with her best friend,
and so the rope slackenes just a bit at the end.
The belly dancer sighs after her last dance,
rubbing her sore feet and praying that God will give her dying grandfather one last chance.
You'll never see these things nor will they let you,
for the purpsoe of getting your money is to make sure that you never know what they do.
You'll never see what I've seen.
With these blind and tired,
old gypsy eyes of mine still see.
Yana Thompson's Other Poems
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