Ballet is poetry...
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
As brushstrokes blend
Hues onto a white canvas
And forms begin to
Appear in the glory of a
Golden pas de deux dawn,
Fingers of light stream
Through parting clouds
Capturing the divinity
Of the death of night
Into days beautiful birth.
Fluid motion, chassé...
Balancing earth's elements
In an alluring assemblé.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem