A Dark Gypsy WomanI was standing in the sun, like a lizard
or a tired beggar wrapped in his old rags,
and a dark gypsy woman ─ dressed in lace ─
grabbed one of my hands and so began:
“Here, hunter’s eyes... here is a rose for you,
a red red rose, that is the sign of love...
but by the thousands, thorns of evil eye
will pierce with endless pangs your life and fortune...”
The gypsy went on talking... I kept my eyes
fixed on a stunted tree close to a wall
eaten through and through by cracks and nettles,
a small tree driven mad from yearning light.
A bluish smoke, the smoke from shoots and twigs,
rose heavy with fragrance from the smokestacks.
Under that sun in March ─ all through the air ─
countless cicadas seemed to trill their song.
And the gypsy woman, lips of coral,
golden rings in her ears, breathlessly
went on trying to tell my life and future...
But I was dreaming of a weightless ladder
all made of light and shiny blades of straw
that took me straight on high to paradise.