The Gypsy by Perzaia Where do the Gypsy Winds blow? Where do they go when after they brush against the blades, the bricks, jiggles the leaves, tumbles the wrapper, dries the sheets, touches the skin; pushing indiscriminately, its weight locomotive or a feather dancing on a breath? Wind is always in such a hurry, always eager to get to the other side of the globe when traversing in a gypsy state of mind. A rootless, groundless fling across the cosmos, eons of gypsy winds anxious to lap up every experience no matter the triviality of source, keen, as if it was the wind’s first time. Gypsy winds rarely stand for the stillness of a quiet moment, or long enough to relish the suspension of their rootless existence; preferring the trembling touch of molesting every outpost and in turn, bringing back souvenirs of its journeys. Gypsy is the wind who travels light, wears only clothes of mists that the temperature hands over in a holdup awaiting the ransom of sun or cold as hostage. Wind frocks in the latest of the many layered clouds fashions, ridiculous clouds, artist clouds, erotic clouds, functional clouds, fun clouds, all tinted in colors of sun and -4-
rain, lavenders and salmon. Gypsy winds are vain enough to ornament themselves in the mode of the day. The Gypsy King is a wandering wind, king wind from the north steering his tumbril drawn by snow dragons. They have a lumbering careen about them, drunk on the cold, dragging behind their icy currents like a condemned convict on his way to the gallows. North Wind’s heavy clawed-fists rake the rugged mountains and isolation frigid, intent on crushing the old ways out of the frivolous warmth of summer’s southern roll. Cold curling wind that ruffs the thick coats of muskox and artic wolves, pushing the lethargic grizzly bear into the shelter of comfy before feeling the burn of frozen. It is a wind that carries its heart in heavy scents, the musk of wooden muskeg, tundra weeds, frail ice flowers and metallic orcas packed inside enormous steamer trunks and hatboxes strapped carelessly to the back and jettisoning its load. The gypsy king’s voyages dwell for the most, in the land of serious story time. Inuit tales reticulated in the sublime of illuminations pirouetting in a sea of stars. In the recoil of chill he is dreaming of snakes and scorpions and
