Thursday, January 10, 2013

Street Dance In Barcelona By Grace Schulman

Alone, I watched the solemn dance begin,
waking from a silence that deceives,
that turns footsteps, or the rustle of dry leaves
into the clatter of a tambourine.
Their voice had been rattling that day,
Rapid as drum beats, in the Catalan,
But a wilderness of hands reached toward the sun,
like wheat stalks risen from a ground of clay.
The crowd divided into perfect wheels, turning
to the stuttering of a wooden horn,
Quickened by the beating of the sun;
I had seen their angry faces burning.
Strangers, we stand alone but turn together,
As vanes become a windmill in the wind,
One hand opens for another hand,
The wheel tears only to include another.