THE DANCE

There was once a story told…

A story of greatness and power hunger

Of tradition distorted by strange influence

A dance created by multiple beats out of place.

The young dancer is unripe to the ways

The ways of the African intense sound of song

She looks beyond the hills and the fading sunshine

To the direction from where the song that woos her heart comes.

Thrust into the crowd to learn through observation

Her hips move awkwardly as the music swells her heart

Like a secret love she visits the hills late in the hour of self

The crescendo startles her, she missed her step.

The music in the hills makes her eyes glitter and smile

She moves her waist to the two different beats of her life

And her feet shuffle in a semi-trance that became the dance

Her fingers and hands form the shape of the river down south.

People around her look frenzied now, the drums frantic

The violins weep louder, the pianos serenade her intensities

She falls to her knees, her strength gone to the hills beyond yonder

Her fingers clutch at the soil so warm against her blood.

She weeps loudly now as her mind and soul beg release

A bigger root to go deeper and grant her stability unshaken by time

For the wind to sway her yet not move her an inch further from home

The music starts again, and her tired feet lift her towards the crowd.