What is it you ask of me?
Tell me, what does the gypsy see,
her visions I must know;


sorry, the future mustn't be sold,
advise you seek, I can give,
the future's path you must live;


Broken limbs shallow rains mend,
years of growing the willow bends,
darkened moons shadow the phase,
patient storms, suns shall raise;


Sibblings cry piercing torn souls,
turn not, fasten youth's bleeding hold,
faces smile forth many shades,
blind yourself, look upon happiness played;


Craddle all that God reigns this eve,
waters run deep in narrow streams,
shelter not the seed you sow,
fallen leaves, earthen pines grow;


Rest now words unknown,
in this life, dreams lend control.


Margaret M. Ryder
copyright. 12-94
All rights reserved.

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