That gypsy knows to wipe
away
the water from her eyes
and push aside emotion
that caused it so to
rise.
And for a time, just a
time,
she watches how it
moves
not quick and speedy
like a fox
but slowly like a
snail.
She felt the chill of
time
run up and down her
spine
and thought perhaps a
second
or a minute at the
most.
But human time deceptive
and so she thought a
day,
perhaps a week, a month,
or a year at the
most.
It matters not, you
know,
because gypsies know to
push
and push and push again
until emotion
disappears.
But too they grow weak
and frail
with no strength to
make emotion move
and of the tears that
pool in eyes
they find their way
somehow
into the deep and
hidden
there to lie and
contemplate
how long, really,
really,
is that thing called
“time”.
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