There are legends I've heard, old songs in the dark
of the old folklore tales, and the old gypsy trails,
where traveling caravans of rugged old wagons
still echo, with longing, in valleys below...
Where each treasured belonging,
was packed in a hurry
all the stories, all the worry, all the heartache would travel
all the sunshine, and the sorrow, celebrations to marvel
and dreams of tomorrow, were kept on the road....
The trail was a friend, and the loam was their home
Their needs were quite small,
For, they didn't expect, to be wealthy or rich.
All the riches they had, were scarce and so few...but they knew
that happiness could be the sun on your back, or a sky, wide and blue...
Not much to expect, and not even respect...
would be theirs to be owned.
As the twilight would come, under a red setting sun,
with the fragrance of loam, and the tired walk done...
they would bed under trees where the heather was strewn
they would burn a small fire, and prepare a warm meal,
with smoke in the breeze, while the whippoorwill's song
and accordion tunes, would drift by the face of the moon
On their heels was the dust, in the noontime sun
They rose with the dust, from tribes of the past,
wearing the colorful hope of tomorrow's new task
Working wherever a meal, and dollar would come
Then moving again with their band until dusk
over, and over and over again...
Some called them tramps, and some called them small thieves
But the heart of the matter, was the love of the sun,
the love of the life that came from the moon,
from the stars, and the grass, and the rust of the leaves
For those who encountered, and who gave them a chance
could learn many things by watching them dance,
and learn many things by hearing them sing,
and pay close attention to how much they knew
that fortune is something that comes from inside
It comes with the pride, of knowing what matters
The tattered, lost life of the old gypsy tribes ....
might be the saddest of stories, or loneliest song...
a song that has faded,
that has dwindled and died....