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”.