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I am the Enemy
A gypsy!
I am.
A heathen!
Not I.
The eyes of the gajos
pierce my skin as I
dance
slowly, rhythmically, anxiously
through the streets.
Watch the thief!
I do not steal.
She will take the children!
I had my own.
I had my own.
The gajos stole them.
Murdered them.
Yet I am the enemy.
I am to be feared.
I am a Romani, a Gypsy to some,
I was a mother.
Now, I am numb.
