Under a broken moon
her cinnamon skin
distills carnations
to the black wood wind.
From camp to hill
like an echo
of the pebbles
on the road.
They say she met a man
in a night of a carnival;
between fire and wine
he kissed lips cardinal.
Romani with blackest eyes,
perfumed temptations,
promised redemptions
on his return.
Jaelle the gypsy sings
along an endless road:
“I don’t got no country,
I don’t got a home.
Take me my old vardo,
my vagabond throne,
take me
to where he’s gone”.
Her heart sighs
to glimmering lights,
her wagon rings
to a lover’s fight.
Her wound bleeds
on the dark trail,
where no one hears
her bitter tale.
They say she found that man
shadowed by the river,
next to bloody blades
and coins of silver.
She lost his glance
to a smuggler’s knife,
and now she travels
to end his killer’s life.
Jaelle the gypsy sings
along an endless road:
“I don’t got no country,
I don’t got a home.
Take me my old vardo,
my vagabond throne,
take me
to where he’s gone”.