The floors are slippery with blood:
The world gyrates too. God is good
That while His wind blows out the light
For those who hourly die for is -
We still can dance each night.
The music has grown numb with death -
But we will suck their dying breath,
The whispered name they breathed to chance,
To swell our music, make it loud
That we may dance, - may dance.
We are the dull blind carrion-fly
That dance and batten. Though God die
Mad from the horror of the light -
The light is mad, too, flecked with blood, -
We dance, we dance, each night.
The Dancers: (during A Great Battle, 1916)
Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
(1)
Poem topics: breath, death, wind, world, good, chance, blind, horror, god, music, night, light, dance, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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