Gitano, Romany, Gitane, raggle-taggle gypsy by any other name,
Nomads, in motor-homes or painted carts, it´s really all the same,
Old roads to Shanty towns, pony fairs, market towns, countrysides,
Buying & selling along the way, old scrap, herbs & old horse’s hides,
Vendors of pungent onions, buttons, lace & the future in our hands,
Greasing palms with lavender & old silver, they´ll tell us of our plans,
Black clad crone stirring into cauldron, her old songs, now lost & past,
Patriarch relating tales from ancient tongue, that linger & forever last.
Their nut-skin babes of coal-black eyes, strapped to dusty bent backs,
Laughing kiddies playing, splashing in old tin pails & hiding under sacks,
Maidens of rounded hips & almond eyes, dancing free & so very wild,
Gypsy of highways, byways & dewy hedgerows, always nature´s child.
Around that magical circle dancing, with moonlight arrows in ebony hair,
Stomping, clapping, wailing, around golden licking fire of their sacred lair,
Beneath the oily olive trees, telling those primeval ancient secrets of old,
Lamenting songs & tales, those of which to strangers are never ever told.
Castanets, tambourines, guitars & the thrumming of those midnight drums,
Disappearing with the morning dew & hot dawning of the warm golden suns,
Leaving whispered footprints in the dust where only perfumed breezes blow,
In your trail of silent marching, echoes stay where only the morning glory grows.