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 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,
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.
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.