Old Rosella, the gypsy fortune teller, sells red roses on the city’s streets. All day she wanders tirelessly, calling out to passers-by and trying to trade the flowers in her hands. Her long heavy skirts drag and jingle on the floor. The bracelets coating her arms jangle alongside them and the beads in the woollen shawl covering her shoulders clink together.
In broken, but good English, she tells kissing lovers, ‘beautiful love. A rose for you.’
To woman, she calls, ‘a rose to bring passions to you. To bring you lucky love life.’
To men, she calls, ‘for your girl to show your promise love.’
They ignore her or give some excuse and move on. Rosella, doesn’t despair, but finds more people and walks through the evening, selling to the night crowd. Before it becomes too dark, she heads for home, clutching drooping steams and yet, somehow she sells a handful of roses every day.
To the edge of the city and the remains of an abandoned factory she goes. Nestled within the crumbling block concrete walls and open to the starry sky is her home- a tradition gypsy caravan. Not many people come this way and those that do stay clear of the pretty coloured wheeled home. She went in and sitting down, but the roses into a vase. She lit her little stove and settled in for the night, knowing that tomorrow she would have to roam the streets again trying to make what little money she could.