the gypsy's petals...

touch

gently

the petals of the

gypsy's

heart

you will find

comfort

there

the melancholy dreamer...

only the sea

to caress her

she sits with her lover

and dreams...

where is the justice?

Where is the justice of political power 
if it executes the murderer
and
jails the plunderer, 
and 
then itself marches upon neighboring lands, 
killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?

the rhythmical creation...

Poetry
is the rhythmical creation 
of beauty in words.

my wild gypsy steed...

come to me my wild gypsy steed

neither reins nor bit to guide thee do I need

i’ll sit upon your coat of virgin white and blackest black

and mount myself upon your back

that bears me long and bears me well

and from this earth we shall dispel

i’ll hold your rippled mane

and taste the power within your frame

ride us high and ride us low

into the whirlwinds shall we flow

with fire and grace to spur us on

through the night and past the dawn