Song of a Sole Gypsey
No train after
No caravan ahead
Save the murky fleet of own reveries
The melancholy
Heard by none but mist
Who always averse to clear his ways
Wind played no violin
No lone star to go along and light
Moves the quite Nomad………
Debris of years past
Wrecked ships past
A sea sans chaos, dead, carries he!
Lofty cliffs and soaking sands;
Riches and rags;
Partied with saints and sinners…
Loved, hated, scorned and smiled-at
Yet never let him say and heard
Nor played his notes ever.
A dustbin or a dusty tavern?
He welcomed umpteen guests;
Unending tales;
Unquenched fires…....
Strewn through streets
As though an unbound diary
Read by none
Indeed, a diary may be read after its owner’s death.
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