The dancer slows her frantic pace
In pain and desperation
Her aching limbs and downcast face
Aglow with perspiration
Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire
With just the briefest pause
The flooding through her memory
The echoes of old applause
She limps across the floor
And closes her bedroom door...
The writer stare with glassy eyes
Defies the empty page
His beard is white, his face is lined
And streaked with tears of rage
Thirty years ago, how the words would flow
With passion and precision
But now his mind is dark and dulled
By sickness and indecision
And he stares out the kitchen door
Where the sun will rise no more...
Some are born to move the world
To live their fantasies
But most of us just dream about
The things wed like to be
Sadder still to watch it die
Than never to have known it
For you, the blind who once could see
The bell tolls for thee...
|
