Lodged within the chambers of my memory
Lives the lapsing image of a Gypsy maiden
Casting her spell on me with the
Supple moves of her dance and
Serpentine flow of her silken scarf.
Swaying in rhythm to the doleful
Strains of a weeping violin,
Her fairy dance mingles freely,
Imperceptibly with the coiling
Vapors from her fire and
Molecules of dust forced to flight
By the stamping of her bare feet.
Perhaps—most surely it now seems—
Reason overruled Passion
That night near Prague so long ago,
Leaving Love little choice but
To take refuge from Reality and
Flee to the recesses of my heart, my mind.
Reason knew then what Passion could not see:
She was East and I was West—
The way it was
And would ever be.
But Passion is a vixen,
A manipulator of destiny
Who bends the mirror
Wherein Reason sees himself—
What Passion wants, Passion gets
And Reason can do little more
Than boast that she and he
Were never far apart.
And so it was a year ago
That fate saw fit to bring her back,
To reanimate a memory
That had never died,
'Tho tarnished by time and
Masked by matters that matter less.
With Fate as her philosopher's stone,
Passion did what Passion does best,
The memory of my maiden,
Using my cup as her cauldron,
The tea therein as her brew,
All while the sweet
Aroma of Darjeeling
Drugged my senses.
Though it borders on insanity,
Or so I've been told,
I bring her back now and then
To comfort me,
To dance for me,
To lift my spirits
When there's a chill in the air
And a tug at my heart to
Return to a time and place that is no more.
— Lon Roberts