Horses drum the earth,
hooves strike fire, hooves strike dust.
Wheels creak, canvas snaps,
wind whispers secrets we must trust.
Hands hover—tea leaves spin,
crystals catch the sun,
cards flip, palms reveal
what the world cannot hold.
Blood hums hidden roads,
brotherhood shadows, secret codes,
magic flows in veins,
fire alive in every stride.
I am the caravan’s echo,
smoke, cards, palms, wind, dust.
Child of shadowed paths,
keeper of secrets,
blood of magic,
and in this blood,
I am whole.
I am free.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 5:48 AM UTC
Horses drum the earth,
hooves strike fire, hooves strike dust.
Wheels creak, canvas snaps,
wind whispers secrets we must trust.
Hands hover—tea leaves spin,
crystals catch the sun,
cards flip, palms reveal
what the world cannot hold.
Blood hums hidden roads,
brotherhood shadows, secret codes,
magic flows in veins,
fire alive in every stride.
I am the caravan’s echo,
smoke, cards, palms, wind, dust.
Child of shadowed paths,
keeper of secrets,
blood of magic,
and in this blood,
I am whole.
I am free.
This poem is a tribute to my heritagemy ancestors gypsy caravans, their magic, their fortune-telling, and the secret paths they walked. It carries the strength, mystery, and resilience of those who came before me, and the magic that still flows through my blood. Writing it felt necessary, like stepping into their world and honoring their legacy.
