By Stephen Cheney
By the stream lived a gypsy,
who walked the hills and meadows;
the flower of the fields,
the flower of the fields.
Beyond the village lived this gypsy,
who merged in and out of dark woods;
a wild deer amidst the leaves,
a wild deer amidst the leaves.
The artists loved and watched her,
she weaved and danced round their fire;
a flame within their thoughts,
a flame within their thoughts.
Within the glen was found her caravan,
to which the lost would wander;
Tarot cards; stars and crystals in her scarves,
Tarot cards; stars and crystals in her scarves.
Coins would buy them all a fortune,
from the soft tones of her voices;
but always good given to ease the bad,
but always good given to ease the bad.
She sang to all the sad and living,
with the passion from her freedom;
till the day that she was gone,
till the day that she was gone.
(Image: The Fortune Teller - Caravaggio)