The dancer

"He's in his grave and on his head

I dance," the lovely dancer said,

"My feet like fireflies illume

The choking blackness of his tomb."

"Had he not died we would have wed,

And still I'd dance," the dancer said,

"To keep the creeping sterile doom

Out of the darkness of my womb."

"Our love was always ringed with dread

Of death," the lovely dancer said,

"And so I danced for his delight

And scorched the blackened core of night

With passion bright," the dancer said -

"And now I dance to earn my bread."