Gypsy Boys and Fathers

Gypsy Boys and Fathers

The boys run barefoot over broken stones,

their laughter sharp as the smell of smoke,

their fathers watch from cracked doorways,

hands like maps of forgotten roads.

Every tale they speak is a warning,

every glance is a promise and a threat,

the boys carry their fathers’ shadows,

even when the world forgets their names.

They fight with sticks and dreams alike,

their voices echo down empty alleys,

the fathers shake heads in silent pride,

eyes wet with years they cannot reclaim.

At night they sit by fire and whisper,

counting stars like coins they cannot spend,

telling the stories that haunt their blood,

passing the weight of old regrets.

And still the boys will run and stumble,

their hearts full of fire they do not understand,

the fathers’ shadows stretch long behind them,

a tether invisible, holding them close.