Gypsy's song.

[Psycho]

Oh I have a gypsy's heart,
and where do I start,
in my travels alone-
To deepest depths,
of my own-

Oh gypsy's heart,
My gypsy's heart,
a fissure, a crack, that's all it take,
to watch my homeless heart break,


Oh that's all it took,
all along,
My eyes quivered, my eyes shook,
My gypsy's song.

"Azziri, come on! You're gonna miss the best part!"

Merian laughed as she tugged at the wrapping covered arm. Her fair tanned skin and flowing black hair was complimented by her deep green eyes. The young woman, barely an adult, was dragging the younger woman alongside with her, through the pausing caravans on the still night. The trinkets and ornaments she wore jingled lightly, musically so, in the night's air, and slowly the two reached the circle around the large bonfire. The few men and women of their caravan happily sitting and listening to Roberto's tale, the man moving around enticingly about the fire, telling his story. Merian sat herself and the bandaged girl on the soft grass alongside the crowd, listening to the tale as told by the tall handsome man who led them.

"And that's when he said! Braid'er?! I barely even know her!"

An uproar of laughter and merry cheer came from the crowd. Azziri could not laugh, it hurt too much. Her throat was sore and she couldn't yet speak properly. The burns have taken their toll. As the crowd dispersed lightly, the young bandaged girl was left to watch the fire on her own. Her body was slim and tall, but she was still young, no signs of womanhood adorned her body. Her hips were still flat and lacked the curve brought by age, and as was her chest. She sat there, hugging her legs to her chest as she stared at the bonfire toss its sparks to the night's sky.

"What is bothering you, Azziri my dear?"

Roberto asked from behind her suddenly. The tall dark skinned man had long messy curls of brown hair, so close to Merian's black. He was her eldest brother, after all. The man lightly moved to sit besides the young girl, dragging a blanket around her. The Night's eve was chilly, but he didn't seem to mind it himself. It took her a few moments to notice, but she was shaking lightly.

"...I... Miss... Home..."

The young girl crooned out, unable to say much words, the mere act of talking hurting her sore throat. It frustrated her to no end, it angered her. The tall man just laughed lightly, smiling over to the young girl with not just his mouth, but his heart towards the orphaned leper.

"Azziri... This is your home. Your family. You have nothing to miss to. Now come, child... It's getting cold outside and tomorrow we'll be stopping at the market nearby. Let's get some rest. I'll even tell you your favorite bedtime."

Leading the bandaged girl to rise with the softest of ushers, Roberto led her away from the campfire, smiling down unto her... Though for a moment, a mere moment, she spent looking over her shoulder at the fire, at what felt like eternity.

And now weary and torn,
My heart's all alone,
weary and torn,
alone,

Grief,
from beneath,
from its pain I find no relief,

My mind, it shatters,
My wailing cries, oh how it batters!
Against the walls of this dream untold,
and my misery increases twicefold.

Is there no way out,
so it would seem.
From this dream,
within a dream.

[Psycho]

Summer starved within orange and gold,
and from the crimson,
of the leaves' fall and midnight black,
whom fall to their blood.

And thus empties the orchard, only lone travelers,
and women,
seek their eyes upwards to view the last flight,
of the rows of storks.

And weeps does the heart. Soon on a closed day,
on the window with silence knocks,
"Have you strewn your coats? Have you sealed your shoes?
Go, and prepare soup."

And indeed so it was. The summer had passed, and travels took their pace to a slower halt, as days shortened. The trail of few large caravans slowly made their way ahead, the beasts of labor which carried each one huffing in anxious excitement, as dark clouds gathered above the once blue skies. As the wheels of the carts gently racked their way through the downtrodden soil of the earth, a rumble churned through the air, an indication of the upcoming storm. Another rumble.

Peering outside the window, the bandaged girl watched from her pile of robes and blankets watched. She heaved no sound and batted her eyes only rarely as she watched. The inside of the caravan was old an worn, but its comfort and allocations to the girl were never lost. It was home. He home. Where her family was. And where she would live to her last day.

Winter did not unrest her. The sound of rain put her to sleep. It was a gentle lullaby which she could never tire of. And as if on cue, the skies released a flash of light, alongside a churning rumble as rain began drawing against the simple window at the side of the caravan. All the family was asleep. Roberto had cradled his women in his arms. Merian cuddled the slumbering cat. Maria gently snored as she rested her head against the pillow. And only she, the girl in bandages, was awake to see the skies pour down.

Hours pass.

What feels like an eternity of drifting in thought, observing the tapping of droplets against the window. A gentle nudging awoke her of her sleepless dreams. The gentle furry head of Panni, the stray cat nudged her lap in seeking a place to rest. The black and white feline was missing an ear, and had a terrible tendency to drool when it purred. When they've found him, he was half dead...

The bandaged girl was whom who brought it back... And even at the brink of death, it purred and nudged its head against her, as if seeking out the love its never known in its life.

A month back, he was at his best health and with a new family.

"We're not so different, you and I... Are we?"

And so the two slept.

To the sound of rain.

And so did the rain pass.
Its gentle winds, the softest caress.
As sleep comes fast,
sleep in its warm breast.

Untold memories of the passing sky,
leaving me to wonder why,
the skies do cry,
at winter's time.

Why do the skies yell with thunders bright,
with its white churning lights,
are the heavens to fight?
With it's watery chime.

Rain.

(The first poem is The Summer Starved, by Haim Nachman Bialik, a famous Hebrew poet.)