A warbling sound: not birds, a pan flute. Blunt knives shiver in anticipation and, hunger sharpened, call out for the Gypsy to come and whet their appetite for things bloody and raw. Dreaming of cutting and slashing and the work to be done. Come, Gypsy, come!
I have a good friend, who has a tapas bar back home and who is also a magnificent flamenco guitarist and singer. I thought of him just now and decided to look him up on Youtube, because he was going to make a CD he told me. He is not there, but one of his […]
Death kissed a gypsy caravan to claim one of the Romni clan and as her life ebbed with the day her last act was to wipe away the tears of Marie Anne The father grieved so for his wife in deep despair he took his life no goodbye note for his son Thad nor daughter […]