The morning air crisp and fresh upon waking in a new place.

Will I again sleep comfortably with the setting sun?

Or do I remember my people taken by the gadjo, Third Reich, the gun?

 

The daily rituals of a secret life unfold as the sun moves across the sky that no one can own.

Will I sleep fragilely after the setting sun?

Children laughing, women talking, men quiet, horses being shod.

 

I am in a land that I do not own.

I am in a land that no one should own.

 

Where is home?

 

I am in a land that I am told I do not belong.

I am with my people and we have our song.

Our language sacred; our minds wise.

Still, we must live a life of disguise.

 

This is home.

​

The violins cry out my innermost dreams.

To live with joy and sleep with peace.

But I hear the persecutors coming our way.

Our camp has been set up for only a day.

 

The hounds bark.

 

We must be on the move as we do not belong.

But I am with my people and we have our song.

Living to the fullest despite centuries of strife.

Bury me standing as I’ve been on my knees all of my life!