The gypsy guitarist sang in the square
A man dressed in black with a voice of an angel
Attracting listeners from here, there and everywhere
Yet his songs made all their hearts painful
Words of sadness and death
Never a song of love or care
Taking away the crowd’s breath
As they stood and listened in the square
The gypsy guitarist didn’t sing for Euros
He sang to reach hidden memories
With songs of long-gone heroes
From distance centuries.