IN GYPSY MUD

m. cygalski
autumn 1999, seoul

in rain and black mud
squatting among rubbish and flowers
in stench of decomposing remains
and hopes and dreams
below rising clouds of smoke
colorful gypsy village of makeshift shacks
strewn with smouldering heaps
peopled with cries, laughter
and lingering sounds of a violine

bury us standing they sing
for we've been on our knees
we've been around

well travelled bunch
from India to Wallachia Moldavia
through chains, disease and hard kicks in Ukraine
to Transnistrian camps, on empty stomachs

entertained by blows of the mob
the melody never left us goes the song
not in Romanian ghettos
not when they took our wagons
tore them from us like flesh

a child playing in the mud
extends its muddied hand to me — at me
holding a filthy glass shard

eye blink