Our dance is our very nature’s upshot
A memo lane parading our memories.
The wrinkles are our dried up streams
With memories of beauty that flowed.
We cannot see beauty but feel its cold
On the bones scrunching dead leaves,
Incorporating life smells of bird chicks,
Withered flowers , faces down,feet up.
We are birds among group of dancers
As we claw the air like them gracefully.
Our fingers round the waists are birds
Taking off, to constantly changing sky.