The Sleeping Gypsy

Halfway up the stairs
we paused,
seeing our frozen selves
one foot above the other,
mirrored on the wall.
Reflected flesh being able
to complete the step
and take another,
we found at last
the famous painting
by Henri Rousseau.
A Customs man, they said,
could never show
the truths of savage life
that real travelers
would know.

The sleeping gypsy smiles,
his breathing slow.

Beside him lurks a lion,
tail suspended,
Skin and sinews bursting
in his ragged mane.
Will the silence of the gypsy’s lute
be ended?
What slake of water
could his shattered urn retain?

Purpose,
certain as the cudgel
in the gypsy’s hand,
is absent from the light
that blanks the desert sky,
that bathes the beasts
upon time’s lapping sand
And gazes,
timeless,
through a lion’s eye.