Sonnet #8
I run into a land that speaks of youth
that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band
and when at last at home I tell the truth
I feel a stranger but on my own land.
The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in
as I recount the days events alone
I find a loss of words as I begin
explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.
The lute is calling forth my destiny
The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep
The tambourine has lulabied my infancy
And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 