Dance

Dance, when you're broken open
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you're perfectly free.
Struck, the dancers hera a tambourine inside them,
as a wave turns to foam on its very top, begin.
Maybe you don't hera that tambourine,
or the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head
that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to hear and see:
dance-music and a brilliant city
inside the soul.

- Rumi