Borrowers Caravan


I wish I could fly, a gypsy woman lamented,

scored and gored in front of her caravan, she

wept for the loss of her son, her mother, and

most of all herself. In the finality of a death

an ascended sun blew lighted gold abreast, a

true listlessness became darkness among she

and her friends, and as the wine flowed from

cup to cup, the dying woman pretended not to go,

not to bleed, not to worry, just to remain still and

cry. Like a goddess among men, rattled and tan,

her light extinguished like the fires in mourn. Lyrics

and song played throughout the night, but even the

kind joy that is music couldn’t undo the undone;

but that’s not the end for her, the elders would say,

and a grave was dug, deep enough to cover again,

then by snow, then by dirt, then by passing time

and love so sweet. Then, as the speaker in verse

changed, a voice chimed in: I couldn’t bare to see

her suffer anymore, so I helped her find the end.

Knives don’t dull even if used in love; her wish now

a truth, and she flew into the sky, a bird borne anew.

~ by Shawn M. Young on October 6, 2016.

3 Responses to “Borrowers Caravan”

  1. Painting credit:

  2. The meta-poetic truth you illumine makes me soar with the resurrected bird. Thank you for writing with a profundity that can alter the world.

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