I am a Romanian woman 

who sings loudly: 

"Wake up, Romania, 

from your sleep of death and

let your shameless body be covered 

in the blood of those 

whose demise was for the

land you proudly call your own.” 

I am a Romanian woman 

who devotes herself to a labour day,

silenced and scared of her own shame 

to proudly say: 

“I am a gypsy woman,” 

because your shame stays my voice.

I am a gypsy woman 

whose skin documents a dilemma 

unspoken -

my brown shade has made someone 

look away and another 

change their seat

to face the other way. 

I am a Romanian woman

for 260 days. 

I carry myself and I glare and I stare 

until I speak out loud -

 "I am a Romanian woman, 

despite my brown hair,

a shade that doesn’t fit

your image of a normal Romanian head." 

I am a gypsy woman 

for the 105 days left

because you can't pretend 

every night and day. 

Your body moves on every song you play 

and that red shade fires up 

once placed upon your face.

The man you  spelled the other day 

thinks only about your lips and 

their red shade. 

I am a Romanian woman 

so when I place my hand 

next to your arm

you don't have to chest your bag -

I am only resting that hand. 

I am a gypsy woman 

when you need my help 

because your husband cheats and 

you’ve been held in despair’s embrace. 

Despite your disgrace 

with your hand placed in mine -  

Now, to read your future 

seems more important than my race… 

But when can I be both 

Romanian and gypsy, 

proudly shouting: 

"I am a mixed woman," 

no longer afraid?