The following is  a poem I began writing in high school(circa 1983) and finished in 2000.

A Band of Gypsies Wander

A bone chilling wind blows from the north. There is mystic magic in the air, somewhere in between good and evil, helping some and cursing others. A band of gypsies wander.

A crescent moon is hanging, glowing in the midnight blue. Beneath it strange things are happening while band of gypsies wander.

Many eyes shine in the darkness, an ancient power at work. A crystal ball begins to glow and a band of gypsies wander.

In the hills, a fog lowers and a smoky mist covers the ground, unseen, as they continue on, a band of gypsies wander.

In a rickety, old wagon, two lovers share a kiss. The same goes on throughout the caravan. And the aged wagons roll ever onward, a band of gypsies wander.

Snow falls upon the frozen ground, though a campfire keeps them warm. Stopping for the night to rest their souls. A band of gypsies wander.

Being pushed or pulled, they know not, but knowing they must go on. No home for these wayward ones, a band of gypsies wander.

Tarot cards are drawn and read, the future now unfolds. Somewhere over the distant plane, they will find their home. A band of gypsies wander.

The temperature drops, lower yet, bodies shiver though they have hope. Using their powers over the mind, they must continue on. A band of gypsies wander.

Days pass, weeks, then years, the wagons yet move on. Many moons upon this trail, a relentless quest this must seem. Yet a band of gypsies wander.

Generations pass as the pilgrimage leads on. The old ones teaching the new ones, the old ways, always cheerful, they continue on. A band of gypsies wander.

Many graves along the way, they die with hope filled hearts. For they know that someday this quest will end. A band of gypsies wander.

In the stars, the cards and their crystal balls, they all see the Promised Land. Searching for this utopia, this “El Dorado” with unwavering minds. A band of gypsies wander.

They’ve cut through forests, climbed mountains of snow. Crossed barren deserts and golden plains. Seeking what was foretold, so long ago, a band of gypsies wander.

On a mild, autumn night, under a smiling moon, all is silent but the sound of wagons crossing the land. As a passing shadow catches the eye, a band of gypsies wander.

Still, a band of gypsies wander…………………………………………………

© 2000 Thom Daniels