by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The gypsies camped
around the dying young man,
staking claim to the money
he had willed them.
He had fallen in love
with one of their women.

He was never lucky
in love,
chose women
who put on masks,
changed costumes.

It would have been better
if he had not journeyed
into that land.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

3 responses to “He

  1. This is very moving Ethel, and sad too. X

  2. I am left pondering. Not that that is necessarily a bad thing of course.

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