The air is fresh and
clean
and that gypsy over
yonder hill
stares up above in
wonderment
because she knows that
way up there
magic has been made and
despatched.
She cannot see it, no,
she can’t
and yet it’s real and
tangible
deep in her heart
that’s been dismayed
and sunken in despair.
For everything there is
a time
and this her time to
receive
and she will breathe
the fresh clean air
in gratitude and
thankfulness.
And that time to lose
too far away
to spoil her happiness
and she dances as all
gypsies do
deep in the essence of
herself.
No argument, no, not
one
that she is free to be
unencumbered by the
grief
and agony, heartache.
Remember, remember,
everything must pass
but always there is
magic
that will make it come
again.
Remember, remember,
help her to remember!
