the peasants wear clay red hats
bright in texture,
soft in hue
skirts of eggplant violet
of hera's eyes
they jingle their tambourines
and dance
in ovals, because no one can dance
in a perfect circle.
the romas roam.
and they are happy.
their sun kissed skin, has
turned to sun beaten leather
the wrinkles crease deep into their cheeks
their hands are worn handles
on the doors of churches
the old look like gargoyles
they have suffered
nomads have a hard life
as do artists.
-Pamplemousse
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