So me tumenge 'kana rospxenava ada zhivd'ape varikicy Romenge. Me somas ishche tykny chxajori bersha efta-oxto. Ame samas terde kakesa Pxuroronkosa ade smolensko vesh. Tele b'el'v'el bolype azurestar sa butydyr I butydyr kerd'ape molyvitko. Syge lyja tetamas'ol i syr kontrast sa pashidyr i pashidyr jek jekxeste jagune zygzagi p'erechshingirde bolype. Pe bax, ame chxavore, zalyzhijam kashta xoc' pe kurko, pxenesas, variso zhakiri. 

What I am going to tell you now has been experienced by many Gypsies. I was only a little girl of seven or eight. We camped with our uncle Pxuroronko in the forest of Smolensk. Towards evening the blue sky gradually assumed a lead colour. Soon it grew dark and as a contrast the zigzags of fire cut across the sky close to each other. Fortunately, we children had gathered such a heap of firewood that it would have been sufficient for a whole week - maybe we had a presentiment. 

The following is an Anglo-Romani extract from the bible (7/Romani entry):

There was a rich mush with kushti-dicking purple togs. Every divvus his hobben was kushti. By his jigger suttied a poor mush called Lazarus. Lazarus dicked wafedi, riffly as a juk. He was ready to scran anything he could get his vasters on or kur it from the rich mush's table.