Gipsy woman

Oh, Mary, 

sweet mother of Jesus,

no surprise that you loved, 

the immaculately conceived child,

but  look at that wonder,

gypsy beggar woman,

on the roadside,

gleefully playing with her child, 

unmindful of the pedestrians,

heaven glimpsed,

in the spontaneous laughter,

of mother and son.

She is rich, 

in love of her child,

he a prop,

in her begging,

but a well loved,

and cared for prop. 

Who created mothers,

magical creatures,

that tend to the child’d every need.

Knowing full well 

that as an adult

he will be her’s no more.

Oh, the scene,

wish I extended my arms, 

in rough embrace,

but just extended alms. 

The unbathed mother,

and dirtier child,

with hair turned brown to golden,

ruffled and sticking out,

as if to challenge  

the world that made them beg.

Wished I could take them home,

as if they were stray puppies,

but they had lives,

more rich than poor me. 

There was no doubt,

the kid the king,

and me the pauper here.

Life flows golden 

through their veins ,

and love cruises amply,

breaking the chains.

But both clotted

in my rusted self. 

Each child a Jesus,

and each mother a Mary,

but who am I?

Why cast me thus,

I a mere witness,

as life happens around me,

but the sole witness,

to the joy of the gypsy woman,

is that my purpose,

to spread that gospel

is nothing more than love.

But how can I?

when I’ve lost all my love,

and my capacity to express it. 

Why tease me thus?

show me to connect to the gipsy,

or let me forever be tipsy,

with wine so fine.

I have no other choice,

but to believe,

that like the Gipsy woman,

I too shall partake in life,

rich in words

disburse them freely. 

Hoping that someday,

my words be precious enough,

that I unloved,

be loved through my words. 

 

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