The light aglow does shine, within the wagon train,
Many voices sing, to the tambourine's enchanted beat,
Playing along the fire warmth, of their encampment.
All together their rations share, with one another, breaking
Bread with an evening prayer, over warm cider, to keep the
Nights chill away.
These are the lost people, searching for a homeland beyond
The horizons hidden path.
Can you hear the echoing sounds, of the cricking wagon wheels,
Or the wind chimes, blowing in the timeless mountain breeze.
The last wagon is the smallest, it contains a precious prize,
Of the Gypsies,
She is the magi woman, the heart of her people.
Fragile and bent with the curl hand of age, yet wise beyond
Her years on earth, a wondrous creature at one with nature.
Many winters passage have her eyes seen,
And felt the springs warming breath against
The raw flesh has she experienced.
Blessings birthing, and sorrows burials, has this
Lone woman been present for, the tribes
Precious Magi, named Mystic Rose.
Lean does she, against a willow staff,
Walking generations ancestral path,
Remembering a cultural heritage, past
Down by mother unto daughter.
Within this living monument of memories,
Beats the heart of a wondering people,
Whom have cried an ocean of tears,
Yet do they not realize they are freedoms
Children, knowing a liberation beyond
Pains and suffrage ultimate dream, to be
Free without boundaries limitations.
But she knows, the Mystic Rose Magi,
So see guides them along the well hidden
Venues, to the valleys evergreen, keeping
Them safe from apprehensions heavy yoke.
For they are the gypsies tribes and she
Is their precious gift the sacred Magi,
Named the Mystic Rose.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN