Gypsy Hunger

goddess woman walking

 

There’s a Gypsy hunger in my soul.

A craving to pack it all and throw

Myself into the adventure, any adventure;

Into the insanity, the craziness

Of my unlived twenties,

And walk with careless steps,

Believing it all,

Enduring it all, hoping it all,

Because life still early Spring and storms

Are nothing, but drenched mischiefs under

Which to run, half-mad, half-dressed,

Unmoved by thunders and flash and wet grass,

Aware, only, of the perfect chill

Of droplets playing to be acupuncturist’s

Needles, awakening dormant energies

Trapped since forever at the bottom

Of my Pandora’s Box.

If I dive into the folly,

Will I do it alone or holding your hand?

Would you walk with me over

Life’s hanging bridge,

Wooden serpent whispering

Like arcane women of rotten teeth,

Smiling courage from within their silence,

Calling us to cross over the primeval

boards, just to see if we can make it?

Will you run with me on last time

Before I surrender to venerability

And self-respect,

And cross the threshold of stillness,

Of acceptance of all that for certain

Will never come to pass?

Come my love. Let’s runaway once more

And then blame the dark side of the moon.

Or hormones, or middle-age or menopause.

Let’s put it over the shoulders of the Stars,

Those usual suspects, who painted

Our eyes with the craze of silver horizons,

Or so we’ll say.

No need to talk about the jasmine aroma

Which my body still exudes;

Or the escapade-greedy muscles

still drawn under your skin;

We’ll say it was the Call,

From some incorporeal guide;

The power of misused Tantra;

The world-wide economical meltdown,

Why not?

Or it they insist, just be frank

And tell them is the fever that you still ignite in me,

Which burns and throws aside the corset of my maturity,

Leaving me naked under the dark matter

Of the universe, indifferent of my place,

Which ever maybe, in their card-board game of existence.

Give me a kiss and come with me.

Far.

Far away.

Let’s tie the girl to our hips

And become pioneers. Ramblers without paths.

Cartographers of uncharted geographies,

And see her run, unbound; our snow-like she Mowgli,

Miniature Isadora Duncan dancing on Roman ruins

Away from tourists tracks;

Or under the shadows of Amazonian mountains,

Half orchid, half jaguar, tasting the golden

Delirium that makes us human. Come.

Let’s go. With little luggage, free

Of expectations, one day, all the days,

The paradox of the cosmos our cradle,

Travellers with no caravans

Surviving the dunes of life,

Fulfilling, at last,

The Gypsy hunger of the soul

Which make us, both, alive and mad.

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