Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

People of dreams, my grandmother said, are we gypsies,
Stargazers, drifters, the royalty of each roadside camp,
Soul travelers, speaking the language of every country,
For through us the wind bemoans and the moon’s eyes see,
Friend to all the forgotten- the lost, the broken, the tramps,
But foe to none, save three: ourselves, the hateful and destiny.

We have our tools, our parlor games; bless the Wheel of Destiny,
But beware the Tower and the Devil, the bane of all true gypsies.
I’ll read your future, relay that Lovers meet and Death tramps
on certainty. Hope comes with the World, where the Fool camps
and drinks from cups, but avoids the Ten Swords that he can see,
Then carefully picks up loose coins from a honeyed country.

Haunted woods welcome me like my sentry raven. Oh, country!
Vamp I am and hag I shall become, no fellow slave to destiny!
Cards do not lie and neither do I; a seer tells what she can see,
Yet my heart weeps, nobody pities others more than we gypsies,
And so I now escape the endless revelations, pitch my camp
in the wilderness where only one, unseen phantom tramps.

So, I build a fire, brew a tea and sing like silver screen tramps,
A stranger approaches the glow I made in the moonlit country,
God have mercy on this Romani. Fortune has found my camp,
So long I have tried to escape from desire, the flame of destiny,
But it’s found me! This prince of thieves knows not Gypsies
And I enflame high above my quaking knees. Can he not see?

There stands the Magician and there is nothing he can not see,
His grin is sure, across my flushed skin his warm gaze tramps,
I clutch my Strength card, attempting to deny the torch of destiny,
Love at first sight is the passionate rite of all blueblood gypsies,
How suddenly the heart can open in the closed bud of the country,
Fate, oh my handsome fate, nods and begins to cross my camp.

He stops, closes his eyes, trembles within the shrinking camp,
So I cross to him, lift my hand to his face, surprise I then see,
A hand covers mine, two quiver before they accept their destiny,
Our lips meet, hot and damp, o’er clover hunger lustily tramps...
I sit up on my bedroll, gasping, alone in this foresaken country,
Damn my waking and damn the sheer loneliness of gypsies! 

I gaze around the camp, something stirs, insistently tramps,
A sigh I hear, not mine, and a bold silhouette I can now see,
Come My Love, come destiny, come thief of the hearts of gypsies.