The girl with a mandolin*

'Don't you ever fall for a mandolin girl"
Told my father once,
But that gypsy girl,
Who had once cast a furtive glance
How can her I forget,
Who had played her fingers
Upon the strings of my heart,

Many years ago since today,
It had been a perfect day,
Winter was there in our town late,
That gypsy girl then  I met,
Was then coming home,
It was I all alone,
Near that wasteland at the outskirts
Of the town, where the arterial road did part
Into two lanes, one going to the woods,
There I think I heard her playing, so I stood,
For a while, taken aback by the music complete
The sun was then into the mist about to dip,
The dusk was just settling soft,
I heard her playing, so I stopped,
And saw her in the dying light
Her face glowing as if bright,
She was sitting on the grass,
A girl in teens, or just a vagrant lass,
I looked at her face and then her fingers
They were running smooth on strings and the tune how beautifully in the misty air lingered,

I stopped , absolutely motionless
The source of music as if I tried to trace,
And the gypsy girl was playing it
The music which numbed me as it me hit,

The dying light, the wintry haze,
The misty air, the music blazed
My heart, my Soul, my being all,
I just stopped there, and in love I made a fall,

O how handsome was her satisfied Gait,
It was , I knew by heart, getting late,

By that gypsy girl, how she kept
Playing on and sometimes looking at
Me, trying to separate notes from highs to flats,
She perhaps flashed a sweet smile,
I was still away from home a quarter mile,
And the music how me held back,
I lost my homebound track,
And kept on listening to,
Her music lending a hypnotic hue
To the surrounding, the trees and town
She was wearing a cape or a long gown,
Saw her face resplendent, and her fingers running unwearied,
I shouldn't have stopped there, to home I should've hurried,

But that gypsy girl,
Didn't She played it too well
As in love of her music I fell.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to highlight and decorate the theme of the scribbling/poem, done by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot, 1874)


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