The Gypsy’s Trance
A wanderer sits upon a rock,
a simple man of simple stock,
he sits by docile flowing stream,
and as he sits he begins to dream.
A beautiful miss with hair of wheat
with eyes of blue, and a voice so sweet,
she has no home no proper place,
the earth her bed, the wind her grace.
She lives to dance and lives as such,
to feel the earth by barefoot touch.
Music plays as she moves and flows,
gentle but quick as a flower grows.
She spies a man quiet and still,
and moves to him like ink to a quill,
he goes to her, a stranger's dance,
her eyes like fire, the gypsy's trance.
Their eyes they close, the music fades,
he remembers her, as knights to blades.
A wanderer now he trudges on,
in search of the gypsy to whom he belongs.