They came, bowed
All in black and slim
Audience was crazy
“Bravo” all applause
Once again
And again
I cursed me “Ignorant”
My question:
“Who were they?
What was that? ”
Once again: (Ignorant)
In my throat was pride
“What was the story? ”
I questioned everyone.
I was not only one; unaware.
I had heard sound of gale
Felt dancers being waves
“Look around in frames
It is West-Side; Canada
The base we danced for.”
Actor said.
I prayed I was right.
What is art but message?
Isn’t it poetry or writing?
It’s painting and dancing.
Who should be observer?
Is that elite? Why not all?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem