The Gypsy

The Gypsy short poem

Photo by MUTE…

Her voice is an awkward drawl among the manifold chatter,
the pitch a bit too high to even assimilate in the uniform blather.
Her skin is one too many shades darker than the general throng-
a constant and incessant reminder that she may never belong.
She celebrates colours, flowers and light,
to honour her heritage, she constantly digs her buttress roots firmly into her soil.
But they wanted her queer revelry far from their sight.
When she was young,
nobody wanted to be hold her hand in the playground.
The chubby gypsy girl, with her two plaits, bizarre sounds, and tinkling hands,
was too peculiar and strange.
But she embraced her oddities-
vowing never to change.
As she got older,
She met some fellow gypsies along the journey,
who bore those same oddities.
From time to time,
she frolicked and even played with cordial strangers and foreign folk.
Some of the mean folk may still fix her with a cruel glower,
and she sometimes still carries her heart in her hands,
but her defined chin and jaw tell them otherwise.
I, the seventeen- year old gypsy,
am blessed with the gift of adjustment and sacrifice,
to conquer each day and continue to strive.

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