And begin to swirl round and round,
A spiralling up of what’s inside,
Growing, growing with increasing speed,
Rising, rising from the ground,
And dancing, dear, dancing, dear,
With this speed, this swoon into the air,
The spirit lifting up and up,
Our mind entrapped outside our sphere,
The senses absorbing each contiguous form,
A madman’s canvas of every colour,
A native dance, the growing sound of silence;
It is for this madness that we mourn!
… And then…
… High up…
… Where the shoreline is by tender waves massaged…
… Slowly…
Untangling movement;
Slow descent;
A laugh reversed,
Converting into a smile…
Oh! Going up again!
… No… it was a fading trick;
The spasm of a joke,
Before the careful folding in movement of landing resumes
And pack us back in our brief while.
