O how we dance, O how we dance
round and round and round and round
we dance by the lecturn dripping with fire
past the camps, the ghosts, the hands on the wire
we skirt past the thorns and sidestep the stones
our ears turn away from the chorus of bones.
the dry cliffs hiss warnings a cyclonic chime
the black ice moves closer — the Maestro is Time
we stop and see clearly the chains on our hands
we stumble on iron waves collapse over sand
our song is salt seaweed the dead fruit the bells
measure our footsteps and muffle our calls
we fall and we stagger we cling to the sea
and there are the crossroads and there is the tree
but O how we dance O how we dance
round and round and round and round
O how we dance O how we dance,
round and round and round.
Renée
