The Gypsy and the Wind

Playing her parchment moon

Precosia comes

along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.

The starless silence, fleeing

from her rhythmic tambourine,

falls where the sea whips and sings,

his night filled with silvery swarms.

High atop the mountain peaks

the sentinels are weeping;

they guard the tall white towers

of the English consulate.

And gypsies of the water

for their pleasure erect

little castles of conch shells

and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon

Precosia comes.

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