Inside, I'm a gypsy

I have felt my feet screaming with pain whenever I have stopped.

I talk to clouds, narrow my eyes, stare at the sky and expect it to react, and wait for rain as if it were my friend from grade two.

I never mind dust settling down on my face.

I walk, walk, walk through the city, stand on the edge of the train, hold the pole from both my hands, and throw myself behind, letting my unkempt hair sweep across the steel bars behind me.

I feel one with the wind that has blown over cities, lakes, rivers, and mountains, carrying messages from the ones I haven’t yet met.

I smell the earth and I like the fragrance that varies with seasons.

I have a collection of anklets.

I swing to music playing in my head.

I make eye contact with pigeons who go all amorous on my window ledge.

I enjoy the company of streets.

I never let heat bother me.

I never fear strangers.

I smile for no reason.

I sit anywhere, eat anything, talk to anyone, stop anytime and move on any day.

I tie my hair with twigs and keep ferns to remember pages in my books.

I prefer the cold floor to a warm bed.

I know the mountains are waiting for me.

Inside, I’m a gypsy.