This lonely following in the old town
At dark, which hides the old blood drawn up
From the Latin bricks your feet form on
In the light rain, after many dead
Women and men, after the small child
Who burns in the big, Mexican sun
And cries with you in these late night times
But laughs when you do not–this wander
ing, I say, is a dancing. Young man
You come before these live and dead and
Dance. Light clothed and lithe, intent, you dance
Before them all, without any songs.
The supple changings of your limbs pass,
Movement to movement, in all the grace
Of youth, of distance from the long dead
In the audience of wanderers.
You hold the agony both of young
And old in the cloak of your turning
Body; which quickens to a spider,
Wheeling, fragile, and quickens to a
Star. I desire to shout words of praise,
Shout arrogantly over the heads
Of the people: See, see, his dancing
Is not the dancing of the harlot.
It goes up from the midst of us all
Sudden and male and sweet, until it
Falls back on this rain wet, brick real street.
Lines for a Young Wanderer in Mexico
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