I see the old gypsy woman, alone
In the alley way, all the time
Her long black hair tumbling down her face
Her wrinkles deepening with every laugh
Her dark as night eyes, mysterious yet filled with personal pain
They spoke to me,
I believe that’s why I was so intrigued with the gypsy woman
Her smile hid her tears
Her purple skirt hid the bruises

Of climbing the towers of the city
And crawling in the sewers, to hide from the rain
I’d wave to her
Shocked by her fearlessness and pride, yet
The cold shoulder always given
But that did not surprise me
She was the gypsy
The woman who told the stories of the past, present and future
Her palm always longing for a gold coin
I’ve filled it more than once

On a snowy December day, I found her body lying
Cold and dead in her own alley way
A held back a tear for the woman I never spoke a word too
Her frozen shut fingers held onto to something small
I was dying to know what it was
She must have watched me from above
Knew I was standing there
Her slender fingers opened and a small photograph



Fell to the cold, dark ground
I dare not touch it with my hands
I simply leaned down and looked at the
Old gypsy woman’s treasure
The thing she held onto for dear life
I wasn’t surprised to see myself
Then I knew, she was something to me
Someone dear, someone I longed to know
Someone other than the lonely gypsy woman
Lying dead on the alley way floor