The ringing sound of the symbols
Never ceases to resonate
Nor the beating stick
Giving rythm to my feet, my hands,
My neck, eyes and body;
My thoughts, emotions, smiles and my heart.
The voice of the music falls upon the ears,
But is heard by the muscles.
So they answer, all by themselves,
Without thinking or deliberation.
They answer in their own poetry
Carved in motion.
The bells in my ankles answer
The shrill ringing of the symbols,
And the beating feet against the floor
Echo the incessant wooden stick.
The flowing melody takes form
In the sadness, the smiles,
the reverence and the affection.
Dance is a conversation
Between the music and my body,
In a language the brain speaks not.
I carry my dance with me, as vocabulary,
In every muscle, in my heart.
