She had kneeled in the center of the stage with her head tucked under the arm
veils of her elegant gown.
The music would begin like a soft sweet drip of honey, as she began to move like a
dove in a slow motion wind.
For once again she and the music had become one.
And as many times before, she would lose the sense of having an audience.
All in her mind was music and moves.
And no music is a stranger to the dancer.
For there are no foreign moves that the dancer had not moved accross by talent.
And as many years began to pass the dancer began to stiffen, as her ageing had
begun to catch up with her, and she felt the music surpass her.
For she was still the music, yet the music was no longer her.
As her moves began to shorten, the seemingly quick pace of the music would not
move slower with her.
There had been many young dancers of whom had come and gone, yet she had
remained for the love of her talent and the music.
As the moves continued to slowly vanish, they were still in her mind like a bright
summer day, yet at hand they were gone.
And like an annual flower after bloom, she too had become wilted.
Only to die soon.
For her life like a season, had come to quick end.
Therefore, the brilliance in her talent shall live on in those few rare dancers of whom
will one day greet the end, of a blooming seasoned life of a dancer.
And the music a non-living thing, will go on past all dancers, yet to keep dancing
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