Guest guest Posted March 1, 2002 Report Share Posted March 1, 2002 No rhyme or reason to this music. Indian dancing girls do something with their hands and men excuse themselves for being born. Every toe goes tapping out craziness, and ankle bells appear in the air. A graceful movement has arisen in the melody of any old bawdy tune. The shape of this wonder transforms debris into ruby mines from the lips of love. We gaze at each other, and remember, that not one of us has ever left this symphony. Not for a moment. Our fingers are flying to catch up, to unbutton the breast of this song. A girl lets her hair down and we start to clown about suddenly shy and clumsy. The Beloved has whispered a poem of Herself in your heart, and the tree of Her life has gone swaying and mad for the perfect hymn to sing. love eric Copyright 2002. Eric Ashford. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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