while they caper, lock step, behind their matador.
This dance, forged by epochs of sitar and song, and no less,
harmonizes man, woman, and their daily tour.
No lines or spaces, no conductor, and no choreography
lead here in tough times and in spaces of stolen grandeur.
Want for right, a craving for rigid walls, and a lack of atrophy
compel steps be placed, one by one, on the worn dance floor.
Today, the dance and the music, droned out by silver and gold,
spiral no more, torn not intertwined, fading to good from best.
Grief-stricken, though not so obviously, the new and the old
seek fresh players and instruments; wait, yes, but do not rest.
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