thegypsy-v1

I will give you a Song... a Song of Passion, of Hope and Death and Family of Shared burdens and Shared tears. A baby is not born with You and Me and Them. A baby is born with “Us”, that network of family that holds you up that gives you the strength to find the “You” in “Us”. 1 person – man or woman or something else – 1 unique and living person Me.  This life comes from two people.  They are my Ancestors. They are the two people to whom I owe my existence. Or 3 people.  My uncle saved me from drowning as a child.  So I owe him. Or 5 people, because I was adopted. Five people I owe my life to,

The setting sun sheds golden sparkles to dance upon the tips of wavelets as they hurry home for the evening. A single white ibis steps gently over them whilst looking for one last little bite long after the other birds have called "Gotta go!" and gone kiting home. Here is the peace after the performance when the orchestra has left but the hall still holds the echoes of its symphony. One last note... hanging in the air as clear as crystal, as deep as a heart beat.

How many times do you walk by the homeless people and turn your eyes to avoid theirs? Their hollow hearts cry out for food but you know your coins will stay in your pocket. You can't help but taste the sweets you will buy with them.  Just as you cannot help but think of the meals it would buy those wretches with their hands outstretched. How many times do you walk by the love-lost and turn your feelings away from them? Their shattered souls cry out for compassion but you know your arms will stay at your side. You cannot help but think of the warm welcomes at your destination.  Just as you can't help but think of the momentary relief it would

Bite deep the soul and tarry not another day; I find October too glee-ful for my name: Give me November. How can one express what passes without its having passed? The girl that left, the toy that broke... These stoke our fires, a poignancy bereft of its source: Like leaves in November. Follow their fall, all color lost, Through frozen air.  At last they're tossed To land upon their neighbor. The Mighty Multitude, An army in brown, stirred 'round and 'round by white-capped winds. I find it bends the soul in knife-edged keenness, These leaves and winds. So listen to the call of November And, perchance, remember All that has been

time moves differently when we are together. when we are apart, the effect is worse.

... You see a patch of blue sky ahead.  Moving toward it, you exit the tunnel into a small hidden valley.  Trees line the slopes and a small lake of pure, clear water fills most of the valley. My guide's voice had become a faint whisper in the back of my head.  I was standing on a ledge overlooking the very valley he described.  Wind tusseled the tree tops, somehow feeling both cool and zesty.  It had a scent of freshness to it that one does not find in the "real" world.  There was no sun in the sky, but the sunlight filled the area as if it were somehow part of the air itself. Take a little time to familiarize yourself with this valley for