They Dance, they Dance,

Each turn and leap, a testament to

The dedication they invest and pain that they endure.

Celtic heritage or simple love for the beauty and grace

That springs from the heart and soul of youth

And tribute to the past.

They Endure, they Endure,

Hours of repetition, days, months, years of practice,

The hectoring shouts of teachers, whips in their voices

But enduring love for their charges,

Guided from halting first steps to the edge of their limits

And for some, beyond.

They Cry, they Cry,

For pain of muscles knotted, bones impacted,

Bodies forced to rigours not meant for human form.

Blistered heels, bloodied slippers, sweat-drenched brow

All in the name of perfection

And the lure of gold.

They Move, they Move,

The pipes’ Fling, Sword, Lilt, Seann Triubhas,

Over and over the tunes drill monotonous skirls

Through the air and into dancers’ ears,

Heart, limbs and feet,

Their very souls.

They Persist, they Persist,

Through faltering steps, touched swords

And blank, staring faces uncertain where next

To place their hands or feet has left,

Departed on the wings

Of thought and doubt.

They Dream, they Dream,

These children of the Heathered Highlands.

They bear the myth and lore of distant lands

Carrying forth traditions of hearth

And far-off misty homes,

And of generations long past.

They Dance, they Dance,

These children on the

Highland Stage.

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This has been a Piperguy48 production
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