That gypsy blood pulses so
within the frame of all it knows
pushing, pushing, this way/that
looking for an exit point.
No door, no hole, no crevice, crack,
but still the search goes on and on
like one determined not to stay
forever in the dark.
Where is the light, where is the light,
and, yes, it listens ardently
but who can speak to gypsy blood
when confined so deep, deep, down?
The will to pulse grows weaker every day
so when you go on walk-abouts
spare a thought and prayer or two
that gypsy blood will find the door.
But time, that artful thing called time
may not come to the party
and that poor old gypsy blood
will simply cease to be.
Rest in Peace!