Thursday, October 15, 2020

The Sleeping Gypsy (Henri Rousseau), Sonnet #534


Each night the old gypsy

Gets a little tipsy.

He falls asleep and dreams

Of all that more than seems.

Beside him lays his oud,

Vibrating strings and wood,

His bottle of red wine — 

Essence of the Divine.

He tightly grips his cane

To bash away the rain,

Or bat the falling star,

Erasing its bright scar.

A lion, maybe real,

Could make of him a meal.

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