Gypsy Sings

Beneath the greatest works

The Masterpieces lie

The ones too profound

Too deep for crying

 

This work is painted butterfly

But the canvas does deceive

A gypsy moth lives beneath

Muted, dull and brown.

 

So what of moth there dying

Decaying by the brilliance

Of Butterfly wings painted peaceful

And a life without sunlight?

 

In her coloured cage the gypsy sings

Mournful songs of angels lost

And of broken fathers, too dead

Or dying to discard

 

Moth to flame

The Gypsy flies

Away from painted wings

And into burning.

 

Look; savior fierce

Listen; timeless sage

Has cast his net to flames

And found a feast.

 

O gentle net of primal god

Did tattered canvas paint

An ugly thing with coloured wings,

The Faery from his dreams

 

And confined her there

Forever pinned by the colour of her wings

As one more lost and one less seen

In someone else’s dream.

Xandra sig 0

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