Dance

She soars upon the notes of a song.
Fingers caressing the music
As round and round she goes,
Carried by some tune that only she knows.

And all at once:
She is love;
She is desire;
She is fury;
She is hatred;
She is passion.

It is a wretched sort of beauty;
Intangible, and yet embodied.
Which then is the one:
The dance, or the dancer?

It gnaws at you
That it is neither.
You hate it
But you cannot leave:
Somehow.

It is then that you must realise:
Dance has ensnared you.