This poem has been submitted by Isha Sheroff for the CLATGyan Blog Post Writing Competition. If you think it’s a good read, ‘Like’ the article (the button is at the bottom of this piece) or post a comment using the ‘Comments’ section below.
It’s been awhile, she mused, stroking his beard
Ahh gypsy, thou roam the mysteries of the world and sacrilege my vow,
Epitaph mine will bear fruit of the pleasures we partake.
Incorrigible I fear we are for nor does time, distance, nor unions by the lord dissuade.
Tell me gypsy, is she beautiful,
The bearer of your seed?
Are her lips blood red, her hair raven black, her eyes sky blue?
Tell me gypsy, does she rival me true?
Woman of the highlands, whose breath is of the early dew,
Whose skin is pale as snow, hair raven black, eyes a greyish hue,
At par none your beauty, Mistress of all those true.
Woman, the sun has risen above the summit
I beg my leave, for beyond the mountains lies in wait my brood.
Ahh you leave so soon?
Enchant me not with sorcery, for not a night more shall I stay,
Entice me not with paleness, your presence shall I forsake.
Woman of the highlands, I bid thy a parting.
Gypsy, a curse to shadow you hence, not a night shall you spend with another.
A thousand thorned creepers will twist into your flesh,
Cry out in pain you will, I pledge.
Goodbye then gypsy, one who traverses tides,
Lust may beckon you forth,
But death’s a persistent foe.
