The Dance.


Bangles tinkled as she twirlled with delight
To the tunes that the guitar would play.
Flicking her hair stamping her feet
Dancing the Gypsy folk way.
Around the camp fire men they would clap
As passion shone from their eyes.
Lost in the  dance swaying with the moon light.
She captured the lust that was thrown
from the men; using it to pick up the speed.
She spun around and around her hair and beads whipped at her face
Making a guttural sound with the sting.
The guitar played so fast it was heard as a waterfall sounds in the spring.
The music stopped and the dancer fell in the dust
for a time that  Is where she lay
The mystery of the dance was Inside her soul;
where no man would dare to look or to stay.
So slowly away she left that camp and not a sound to be heard.
Her energy  spent and incapable of uttering a word.

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