The Gypsy Caravan - an Allegory

It is said that long ago
a shaman bargained
with a fire god
not to let anything burn
indoors so long
as his people lived.

Their cook fires were dug
in pits along the road
and homes consisted
of canvas and carpet;
nomadic life compelled
by a deal made with a demon.

Hearts could only sing
behind the driven beasts
or behind curtained
caravan nests,
for neither passion nor
lust smoldered where
coals could find no spark.

Houses they built for living
were abandoned in old age
no children sired in fireless loins
to carry on sedentary life;
palaces became empty shells
along the nomad trail.

Forever wander these souls:
traders, gypsies, roadies all;
keep all that's valuable deep inside
but live their lives on their sleeves.

"Come with us," they beckon,
"and hurt no more,
fire cannot touch what's
stored away."
Their songs and dance,
brilliant costumes and
lilting laughter do appeal.

But I return from their camp
to my meager home
and look into my mirror.
The lines driven deepest
of loss and pain
follow the paths laid out
by creases of joy.

If my home has burned
it is because my heat
has generated highly;
those are not my people.

No bargain keeps me
from risking all that I am
to plow my fields here,
bake bread with my wife
and raise our brood to
feel deeply, truly all they can
without hiding it from the fire.

[inspired by Burning City by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle]