2. The Dance
And when the silence, dead and chilled, gave the air a chance to still,
The unborn fiend played once again into the night time’s ghastly wind.
But faster now at a different pace that brought the dirge to a wicked pace
Enticing the beating hearts of men to part from grace and dance with sin,
To silence the harps and sacred hymns and let the fiddler’s dance begin
One by one the dreamers rose on the strings of their puppeteer
Down the stairs in waking sleep through the frigid snow and sleet
Giving themselves to the rhythm and rhyme dancing in their ears
Gathering as one round the fountain’s square, misguided by their foolish feet.
A mass of craving souls in shame filled the desolate streets
Craving, needing, begging, pleading the Fiddler to set them free.
Around the neck and cat-gut strings his fingers moved too fast to seem
Mortal flesh, which would burn and bleed if forced to play at that wicked speed.
But on he played with his black bow flashing, sinful notes that went wildly dashing
Into the ears of the bodies thrashing, down below on the city’s street.
And then the fiddler turned to me and smiled with what will ever be
Haunting the dreams in which I lay a helpless host to my memories.
The malice in those fiendish eyes rocked the rock of my sanity,
And the sounds of Legion in that laugh rang from mountain top to sea.
Yet, still his congregation danced forsaking all in blissful glee.
Back and forth they would sway and spin, groping flesh and tasting skin
Panting, ranting, soft and low, to each among their twisted kin.
Stomping, turning, bending, yearning, and squaring off to begin again,
And on and on the fiddler played laughing as he gently swayed,
His song of calling in the wind with an upturned face and a lust-born grin.