Vision filled dancers whirling round, seeing nothing and experiencing all. Full tapestried skirts belling out a pervading odor of sweat.
The chant creating images in the minds of the dancers.
Of what?
Beauty and grace, intensity seldom felt.
The knowledge that each minute individual has a place in the universe.
The cosmic dancers of the Greatful Dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem