[THE SONG OF MOKAI]
He's dead, I watched him die.
He cast a spell on my mate,
They loved, and the moon whirled 'round the sky,
They mocked at my rage and hate.
Blood red from the burning sea
The sun rose, and I knew!
My soul whined wild little songs to me,
I did what I had to do.
I have taken the bone of his thigh,
I have fashioned it into a horn;
And I sing my soul's song, shrill and high,
And curse the day he was born.
[TO THE GYPSY MAN]
Is there no room in your gypsy heart
Where a woman's love might lie
Warm and sheltered, your prize and song,
As you wander beneath the sky?
No, for you say, "I'll carry no weight,
I must be free, be free;
I'll carry no love in my gypsy heart
To make a drag for me."
Little you know, then, love is the cloak
That shelters you from the storm;
Love makes the shoes for your gypsy feet,
Love is your coat so warm.
Though you take no purse and you take no staff
You cannot escape the load
Of a woman's longing and woman's love
That follows you down the road.