The song of music box
Shatters the air.
A melody, exotic,
Intoxicating, so very fair.
The far away flute,
The summery call,
Of a bard's beribboned lute,
Lifting and merging.
Drifting between the clouds,
Soaring out of the darkness,
Comes another voice,
Calling out loud.
Eyes glowing through the gloom.
A smile flashes in the night.
Above the clouds, a beating heart.
Above the clouds, sings the dreaming lark.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Counting out. Counting on.
Skirts gathered, flaring out, swirling, gone.
Alone in the dark.
Alone in her dreams.
Alone in the dance.
All is not as it seems.
Song of the lark.
Song of the dreamer.
Song of hope.
A dance, exotic and dark.
Eyes watching, dark and knowing.
A smile flashes in the night.
Watching, knowing, timing it right.
Watching, knowing, a tenor voice.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Counting on. Counting out.
Velvet skirts, flaring, whirling about.
One hand caught.
Two eyes, open wide.
Three words spoken.
'Dancing all alone?'
One hand held.
Two gazes meet.
Three words, whispered.
'Alone. Always. Alone.'
One joins the dance.
Two begin again.
Three voices sing out.
Music box. Lute. Lark.
'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'
