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The blue sky shields my tent in the desert
Where a horizon of white sand spreads
A luminous ocean trampled by the winds
Where I yearn for Gypsy women
A Gypsy woman,
Part of a tribe of vagabond seekers
Whose sandaled feet
Blessed by the hem of silk skirts
Tread the city streets,
Lives on manna with no money
Carrying velvet duffle bags
Filled with trinkets and drums
Traveling the world in opulent splendor
She dances for a meal or plays the veena
Then tends to Gurus in Caribbean mansions
And gathers garlands of poems for slender lovers
Seeking sanctuary in the words of a friend
Her poems of love
A tent in the wasteland
Where the black sky rims a shield of glass and
steel
Of skyscrapers glittering light on the river
I yearn for the words of a Gypsy
My sweet friend
With no work and no money
Whose vagabond life makes her a
Fortuneteller to lovelorn seekers
Seeking sanctuary
I yearn for the words of a Gypsy woman
Whose love is my tent
In the sands of change
Whose poems, like music
Trample the winds
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