He dances not for us.
The drum in his right hand
beats a world awake:
one syllable, then time.
The fire in his left
will take it back again.
Between the two, a step.
That step is everything.
Under his heel, forgetting,
the small self that believes
the song is his alone.
He lifts the other foot: refuge.
Look closer. The ring of flame
is only matter cooling,
the same fire that forged the iron
in the star, in the nail, in your blood.
Creation is not the enemy of ruin.
They are one gesture, held so long
we mistook the pause for permanence
and gave the pause a name, and called it world.
When the last drum fades
and the fire has had its due,
he will not stop dancing.
He will only begin the count again.
Every atom heavier than iron was minted in a dying star. You are, quite literally, ash from an older fire, still dancing.