| The Little Lost Gypsy By: Johann Bedingfield Winding in paths of endless spin Truth seems to lie straight I dive in clear water Only to find myself in mud Just a kid trying understand Just a boy crying to make sense of hate Just a little gypsy making his way home In her bosom the gypsy found comfort They call her Mother But the word whispers on a wind She has disappeared Grief grays gypsy Wandering here and there, of him they say A little lost poet, strumming his sad song A small prince and his wounded kestrel Sitting on his shoulder faithfully Though longing to glide in Father Sky To break free from this doomed sphere Is Hope a memory, a nightmare? Give him an answer He calls you to join him Help him to save what is sacred For the sake of beauty The ash renews A rose buds Perhaps Spring comes Mother? Is that you? © Johann Bedingfield |