Gypsy Price Poem by Marinela Christel

I crouched low by the burning fires
And listened to a most strange tongue.
On those dark faces I see desires
And dreams that back then, were dung…

A few dung chunks were added still
After the midnight hour struck
And skirts unfurled in darkest chill
Deciding who stays here for luck.

The caravan needs to be moved,
All hatred for them needs to stop,
They’ve sold the pots and proved
Their mastery outside a shop…

Worn fiddles take up plaintive notes
And braided hairs shake with coins.
Fires are dancing and anecdotes
Warm up insides and eager loins.

I watch the Little Light slowly unfold,
Her red skirts twirling at such pace
And black eyes snapping darkly bold
She dares all to dance… embrace

The freedom that is promised them
In near futures, a rainbow wide!
Her visions high, she holds the gem
Inside her heart, all fears aside…

We join her dance and feel the spirit
Of gypsy kings join our crowd
As winds pick up and we are near it,
Gold pours forth and we’re endowed

With knowledge ancient, and the new,
With primate fallow, broken hearts
And as we twirl and swirl, lean to
The left and right, something departs…

Dizzy, exhausted, I watch and weep,
As bargaining and skill are all swept
Under a heavy cloud, asleep
The gypsy kings and queens are kept.

Somewhere well in the beyond,
Their ghosts are wondering and mourn
Lost and so empty, a vagabond
Bunch of nomads no more now born.

No dances for the ones who die,
No crying for the ones just born,
Just great big houses, rising too high,
And no more looks of scorn…

They are the goyas of their past,
They are the leaders in the news,
They are the nothings that will last
And I ask what is the excuse?

Synthetic fiddles rampantly play
Under a satellite dish, loud…
And waves of gypsy angels sway
Flaunting the lining of a cloud…

My sumptuous mind closes the book
And pictures freeze in old frames.
I close my eye; don’t want to look
At what we did to their names.

No kings shall walk and lead the way
No dancers by the bon fires will sing,
They’re all cocooned during the day
Around a screen which will be king.

At midnight high, I go outside
And ask the stars to slow their pace,
Bring back the gypsies for a ride
In the red wagons and give them grace.

Grace to live how they did,
Grace to feel what they’ve lost.
The gold they had is what they need
To look upon inside…the cost…