The Gypsies

 

The gypsies moved into the castle.

We’re all famished and freezing cold.

The wind stole away with our harvest

And all of our women are growing old

 

And the rain has never stopped falling

Since the year the girl drowned in the well.

But still our bread tasted of moonlight and earth,

We’re under a butterfly’s spell.

 

The gypsies moved into the castle,

They wish to be buried with their guitars.

They don’t care about your hell or your heaven,

They’ve got their own sky, got their own stars.


And we play with our unborn children,
                                                         
And we dance among flowers and the stars.
                   
And they sing us to sleep when the shadows are falling

And place their hot little palms on our scars.

 

A long time must pass till I’m born again,

For my empty hands to cradle the sun.

The gypsies moved into the castle,

And they won’t run away from your guns.

 

Hungarian gypsies outside Carcassonne, France, 1898. An illustration from Le Petit Journal

Hungarian gypsies outside Carcassonne, France, 1898. An illustration from Le Petit Journal