This dream-sword's edge in amber chamber lit,
The leather hilt held in ancient stone -
Hair-splitting sharpness steeled in dappled light -
Poised to cut the dancer's fragile bone.
Here must I perform the ancient dance
Spinning along the softness of its edge
Where only the lightness of a dreamer's trance
Can hold me, will me to fall backwards on the ledge
From which I gaze in wonder at the blade.
And amazingly I cannot feel the pain -
And wounds from dancing soon begin to fade.
So, once more, I resume the dance again.
Time is the blade running before my reach,
The edge of life which bears my dancing feet.