Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance, in the middle of the fighting.
Dance, in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.
Struck, the dancers hear a tambourine inside them, as a wave turns to foam at its very top, begin.
Maybe you don’t hear that tambourine, or the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to hear and see:
dance, music, and a brilliant city inside the Soul.