Ho brother, I had FUN trying to find a category to stick this beauty in. It doesn't have any HOND characters, which tends to be essential for HOND fanfiction, but it couldn't be more about the Rom (gypsies, a.k.a. Romany) and Gaje (Parisians, non-Rom) of the Disney movie. So . . . screw it, it's fanfiction. It was really inspired by Herlikin, that fanfic I rave incessantly about in my profile, though I didn't steal anything from it. So cookies to whoever wrote that. And . . . um, that will be all. Farewell, my readers! (Bold X's separate stanzas, too).

A Song of Paris

Part I: The Ice Princess

She leans forward, inspecting her porcelain face.

Ivory skin, unblemished by wrinkles,

Flawless lips, still firm from lingering youth,

Blue eyes, almost beautiful save for

The cold death within them.

Splendor but no life.

Loveliness but no love.

Cold, untouched.

Ice.

X

She’s dressed in rich ebony satin,

Flowing midnight,

Black as her heart.

Gloves and high necks hide her skin,

But the right glance at a man in the crowd, a step into a back room,

And she will no longer be so concealed.

Her husband stands at her elbow,

No contact, no commitment, no love.

Business partners.

X

She drapes jewels around her neck

Weighing her head down like sparkling sins.

She lightly taps her lips, coldly searching for flaws.

Her golden hair is buried by a hat,

Her eyes veiled by ice.

With a haughty air she strolls the streets,

Keeping her husband on a short leash.

No words are spoken between them.

She smirks as she sees the gypsies dancing.

They are unfit to wipe the mud from her shoes.

She is nobility.

She is superior.

She is an ice princess.

Part II: The Romany

She throws her head back, sunlight glistening in her thick, dark hair.

Cinnamon skin, sweaty and dirty,

Laughing lips, curved into an easy smile,

Dark brown eyes, a little too small,

But lovely, and dancing with life.

Penniless but happy.

Plain but in love.

Flaming joy.

Fire.

X

Dressed in simple red cloth,

Swirling inferno,

Vibrant as her character.

Short sleeves and low necklines reveal her flesh,

More than proper, for sure.

But no matter who watches, only one man will take her home.

Her husband has one arm around her waist, his lips against hers.

Intimacy, passion, devotion.

Life partners.

X

No lovely jewels adorn her neck,

Just a simple woven necklace made by her mother.

She gaily lifts her tankard, ignoring all flaws.

Her black hair flowing free and wild,

Her eyes warm and welcoming.

Eagerly she skips down the streets of Paris,

Holding her husband’s hand,

Singing at the top of their lungs.

She laughs as she sees the countess approaching,

Pities that meaningless, beautiful life.

She is a gypsy.

She is content.

She is Romany.