THEY DANCE
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.
