Ah, the passion of the throbbing rhythm
The heated waltz with a flaming blend
The crying guitars and bleeding fingers
The busy feet and the song that lingers
The intensive eyes and the look of steel
The song within a restless story to reveal
The dance that was born in zealous tears
The steady pulse that grinds thru’ the years
The frenzy of the music that never stops
The dance that goes on after twilight drops
The sweet pounding that falls thru’ the floors
The drifting along the flow without any oars
The easy rivers with nowhere to run to
The rapid rhythm that got up and grew
The silent rage that drives the passion
The music that stirred the dancers to action
The dance that grew into a rhythmical dream
The dancers are ready, so begin the beguine.

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david schieres
over 3 years

I will pass a bill in congress where we must re etch the letters on our graves. There is a lot of zeal there. I thought it got dour at the end but no. Can i refer to it as an invitation to dance with a woman un boleroed?

Nelson D Reyes
over 3 years

The poem is so smoothly written I could dance the Bolero without the music. Every single line makes you dance like a pro together with your partner who dances the second line. Imagine when they begin the beguine! Magical!
Fave. Love. Thanks Robert.

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