Mystic Dancer

Stone still
Etched in memory
by the light slanting through the window
She stands
Listening to some inner sound
some deep down music

Poised she waits

The faintest motion
First her hands
now her feet
barely disturbing the air

Faster now
Her hands become birds
fluttering on
the ends of her arms
Her feet become fish
swimming the waters of time
Each movement leading into the next

Faster now
She moves without thinking
For to think it is to miss it
There is no thought
there is only
the doing of the dance
The dance and the dancer
becoming one thing
one thing in movement
She sustains herself
in that motion
And exceeds herself

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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