Isabel U.

The stars are hidden behind the haze

Of sleepy sun’s departing rays.

The white moon shows her shining face,

And bids the river leave her race.

The mountains rise and fall like breath.

The desert land lays down to rest.

While the gypsy sleeps on bed of sand.

In the palm of night,

Her skin is dark, her dreams are bright,

Her walking staff still in her hand.

The stoic lion guards her rest.

His knotted mane projects his power.

The wasteland is an oasis blest

With wanderers in silent hours.