That gypsy looked as gypsies do
into the heart of silence
hoping there to see
golden threads of happiness
purported to be real.
Lo/behold, a mass of many colours
starting bold and vibrant
and ending pastel, dull
and she started to unravel
still hoping as all gypsies do.
Not here, not there, but somewhere, yes?
And she looked again as gypsies do
way beyond the pale
and there in quiet repose
cross-legged on the seat of time
sat pure happiness.
What time, what time, she didn’t know
there was no day, month, year
and she returned to move again
from here to there like gypsies do
unfettered and uncluttered.
No golden thread can be entwined
with the bold that turns to pale
but it is there waiting, waiting,
for the sure permanence
of all things combined!