by P. R. Lowe, copyright July 4, 2016  (written June 10, 1970)

To go like a Gypsy

into those sacred places

where waters stop their falling

and birds stop their calling

to watch and listen for the lord

he is stomping through the thickets

with a rifle in his hand

raised to such heights in his mind

that he cannot look down

he stumbles over bodies

and breaks the peace of our mother

that squirms in the damp and fertile earth

beyond his vision and reason

it is treason

to go like a gypsy

into their sheltered realm still humming

and warn them of his coming