Gypsies living for the day, it’s joys and sorrows,
Never saved a penny of thoughts for tomorrow,
Spent it all buying solace of that moment silent,
Echoing mellifluous like old songs forgotten.
Searching for some old forgotten poems,
Some savings left of memories’ balance sheet,
Rummaging through yellowed piles of years,
Found old accounts all spent and defunct.
Blank pages stare back a while then diligently stoop,
Back into words lilting on templates of yesterdays,
Tracing the lost face of dreams, fingering through,
Those strands of hair flying with wind to times bygone.
I catch that fragile parachute seed, silver like the
Beard of a lovelorn gypsy singer, treading vast
deserts in moonlit nights, with his sobbing sarangi,
Perched on the memories strung tight and tuned.
One more night he sings, one more love song that,
Hums, cries and croons melodious, resonating…
Within all the pain wrenched out of gut, heart and mind,
Searing the soul evenly, even on such chilly nights.
A lovelorn gypsy’s last love song…
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