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Portrait of a Gypsy
She sat on the front steps
with her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Her left arm cradled her empty stomach,
her right hand picked at the white paint peeling
from the weather-beaten wood.
Her ivory skin looked a tired gray
and beads of sweat collected on her forehead.
Ill from hopelessness,
but still so impossibly beautiful
with wildflower curls
framing her face.
“Why are you leaving again?”
we asked.
“Because,” she said,
watching her old world
fade in the twilight,
“when I stay in one place,
everything manifests itself as sadness.”