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.
