The Gypsy King

In the dim, languid blanket of faltering eve
When the first stars appear and the last daylight leaves
A caravan bright, in the dark of the night,
Tied up fast by the roadside in hope of respite

A bonfire was lit and a dancing troupe formed
And they waited with patience till fingers were warmed
Till the fiddlers commenced, while the cold air incensed
By the heat of the fire tried to erase their prints

Then suddenly swift as a red ember dropping
Down fast onto ice sheets without sign of stopping
And sputters and hisses, full scalding with kisses,
They danced with the passion a gentleman misses

And clasped in the center, bright-faced as a god
Like a young bacchanal with his scepter and rod
A crown on his hair, the locks twisted with care,
Pranced the king of the Gypsies with pride in his air

Ah, pride!—such as only the young may possess
Misguided ambition, lacking naught but duress
Though his crown, truth be told, was not fashioned of gold
But of brass, and embellished by festoons of mold

Nonetheless, through his costume of tatters consisted
His boldness and beauty obeisance enlisted
When a thought through his mind, like a tendril in kind,
Ran its sinuous way till his pride it did find

And there it cajoled and caressed and sang praises
While his heart, desperate heart, passed through various phases
Till at last, in the end, his poor reason did bend,
And his voice sent a challenge for heaven to rend

“I am king!” he cried forth “I am finer than all!
Not some listless nonentity, plaything, or ball!
So I’ll dance in the fire, else thou call me a liar,
And come out unscathed leaping still all the higher!”

And into the flames with abandon he danced
Spinning faster and faster till he felt as if lanced
By the fire’s lambent lick, so voluptuous yet quick,
And the fingers of light that so ardently prick

Confused by the pain, he looked up at the sky
Though nothing escaped from his lips but a sigh
(As soft as the light on a velveteen night)
While the fire clawed his ankles with all of her might

Now stricken, seduced, and afraid he did writhe
And he twisted and turned, his escape to contrive
Understanding, at last, that man’s mortal cast
Was unsuited for this and his life was now past

Ashes to ashes, by forfeit of trust
When a man is too forward, then taketh He must
For presumption we may, in all candidness pay,
Till the rosebud of youth is more nothing than dust