Did we really waltz,
Back in the day?
It seems so quaint,
A long-forgotten fruit
Of something dead.

A poem, an inkling, a naïvety,
A treasured hope of goodness
Or romance.

Just plain foolishness.
An optimistic twirl;
It misses our predicament.

When did we learn
That all our hopes are dashed,
Horrors unleashed?
And still the sleep inside our hearts,
The crazy sleep . . .

Waltz for me please,
Now, with the moon –
The delight makes me squirm
As your feet go tripping round.

Waltz for me please,
But bend up your back
And let the music mangle
Your tangled frame.

Waltz for me please,
But oh, make it harsh
And let the fever rip –
Because our dread is apt.