Gypsy
Within the forest of ancient wood
In a grove of whispering oak,
You sit, your palms bathed in sweat
And watch for her ebony cloak
Dressed in her scarlet finery
She beckons with bold stare;
Down the path you follow
Hearing music on the air
Rhythmic drumming leads you on
Resounding in your chest -
Around a circle of wild bonfires
Women dance like ones possessed
Still she leads you further on
To a tent beyond the flames,
Her voice it calls the power close
As she speaks the Mother’s name
As you cross her palms with silver
She employs her mystic arts -
Ancient knowledge born from women
The cards will soon impart.
© Amanda Lancaster, 2006
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