#art, #poem, “The Dancer”

The circus has left us in Brooklyn with faded white t-shirts

and wrinkled grey shorts.

The charlatans have fled the city,

and the tigers have devoured the goats,

while the banners still hang from one side of the street to the other,

rotting in the wind,

the dancer

dances to the wild guitar and to the girl who sings.

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To dance is to dream with feet gracefully gliding through floors,

and a body that twirls in the light.

Guitars fracture the tavern’s rustic air

and notes fly deep into the night,

while rhythmic patterns tattoo walls with the ink of shadows,

travelling through the years,

while the dancer

sweats a million tears.

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We live in times when hopes and aspirations travel up and down,

as if riding a lift, and memories sail to rocky shores.

I’ll light another candle to the saint that weeps

and pray that he my soul restore.

It’s then I start to dance,

to dream with rhythmic feet upon medieval floors of wood,

while in the corner smiling,

stands the dancer,

clapping hands to keep the rhythm,

tears of sweat and sweat of tears now dry,

and dreaming of the girl that sings and of the wild guitar.

He guides me through a step or two

then vanishes within the halo of a star.

C.2024, Francisco Bravo Cabrera – 26/03/2024 – Valencia, Spain