A gypsy sleeps beneath full moon
upon the desert floor.
A lion sniffs her flowing hood,
no hint of threat or roar.

Her mandolin lies by her side,
her staff held in her hand.
A jug of water made of clay
for use in arid land.

The striping of her caftan bright,
bold orange, green and gold,
would catch the eye of cat or man,
such beauty to behold.

The colors of the draping cloth
against her jet-black skin
invite one to invade her dreams,
the fantasy within.

Why else would lion silent stare,
why stand serene and still,
if not to walk into her dream
and have its own dreams filled?