She dances under the moon.
Skirts of tattered red encircling her hips,
Untamed curls of hair whip around her smiling face,
A wild expression comes to her amber eyes as the beat quickens.
She sways to and fro,
As if it was the wind that moves her.
Spinning around on the tips of her toes,
She kicks up loose dust into clouds about her feet.
A blaze next to the lake turns the shallows to steam
O! What a sight to behold.
The dancer of fire swaying,
Rolling her hips to the rhythm.
Reaching above her head to capture the silver disc in the inky black sky
Within her nimble fingers.
To engulf it in the flames of life,
To swallow up everything into the hearth of the moment.
The sight enticing.
The scent intoxicating.
The song arousing.

Underbrush catches fire,
Chasing the creatures out of the forest,
Singeing the scarves bound to her arms.
Sounds of a chaotic rush.
She still moves, oblivious.
No, not oblivious,
Not at all.
She is the one, who started the blaze,
It is she who danced to bring it about.
The swaying of her hips,
The movement of her arms,
Her erotic dancing,
All part of her plan.
The world’s plan.
To give new life to that which is dead.

She tosses her had back,
Exposing herself to the moon’s piercing gaze.
The flames consume her,
Ripping the cloth off of her body,
Licking her bare skin.

She is the flame.
She is the blaze.
She is the dancer.
She is passion.
She is the Fire Dancer.

 
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