Where homes are houses
And shoes are anchors,
Bound to the earth that
Sings out of tune,
The flight of music is a wounded bird
And dancers all have weighted wings.
Poetry is the hub of assorted data
And stories are lists of vital instructions.
Sleep is a refuge for all the rebels
And dreams are for the disenchanted.
Sound is an obstacle to the flow of music
And the passion is for heated lovers only.
Air dancers leave the earth while they dance.
They roll with the sound of the silent clouds.
They twist their bodies to the mood of the rain.
They fly into stories of space and beyond.
They kiss the angels and jump into heaven.
They sing with their feet in the mystical air,
As they dance with the poetry
Of their playful minds,
And laugh with the wind
As they sail into forever,
While disconnected to that rocky sphere,
That planet of various
Weights and measures,
That earth that touches the dancers’ feet.