At the pomana — the death feast — I missed him most
I know that under the stars of this cold, pellucid night
the ghost of my gypsy soldier is not without a home.

No Romany man can live alone, our women are not alone,
we carry our home in our hearts, our women wear topaz and dance;
no, we will never-ever part: the man I killed is part of my family now.

Gorgers and their police understand nothing of honour and respect
Gorgers love greed: like pigs they snort and slaver but unlike sister-pig the Gorgers hate their own kind.

They love gold and cars and they accumulate, accumulate, accumulate. Why to do?
I speak Polari so these Gorgers do not understand
how powerfully I hate them,I look at them squabbling over coins and spit.

They love money, pornography and power
I love my family and the didikai, my Romany friends
who warned me about the ghost of the man I killed.

His Mulani-spirit follows me as I work and sleep and fight
maybe when I return to Flanders his spirit will be gone
sometimes I drink to remember and sometimes I drink to forget.