Little Gypsy

Little Gypsy

 

And as the night grew old, her tiny feet tapped the earth, trudging along; snake like patterns in the sand.

The soles of her feet told tales of trails, and the calluses spoke of treachery.

The bangles and tawny rings from a man with a swift hand and gentle sneer weighed the most.

But, the beauty of such things bear not in value but rather possession; a moniker of her profession.

She bore no grimace or any other, for not a wretch such as she would entitle hate a home.

For she was a porcelain face with toasted skin, sack in hand, shawl in another, wandering along my opposite.

I was a passerby, with dull mind and monotonous road ahead, the trite night laying on me.

And as I drifted by this humble, little gypsy; taillights catching behind me, she never thumbed for me.

She just kept trudging along; snake like patterns in the sand.