A Piperguy48 Production

They dance, they dance,
Each turn and leap, a testament to
The dedication they invest and pain that they endure.
Celtic heritage or simple love for the beauty and glory
That springs from the heart and soul of youth
And tribute to the past.

They endure, they endure,

Hours of repetition, days, months, years of practice,

The hectoring shouts of teachers, whips in their voices

But enduring love for their charges, guided from

Halting first steps to the very edge of their limits

And for some, beyond.

They cry, they cry,

For pain of muscles knotted, bones impacted.

Bodies forced to rigors not meant for human form.

Blistered heels, bloodied slippers, sweat-drenched brow

All in the name of perfection

And the lure of gold.

They move, they move,

The pipes’ Fling, Sword, Lilt, Seann Triubhas,

Over and over the tunes drill monotonous skirls

Through the air and into dancer’s ears,

Heart, limbs and feet,

Their souls.

They persist, they persist,

Through faltering steps, touched swords and

Blank, staring faces where the next movement

Should place their hands or feet has left,

Departed on the wings

Of thought.

They dream, they dream

These children of the Heather’s highlands.

They bear the myth and lore of distant lands,

Carrying forth traditions of hearth

And far off misty homes,

Of Generations past.

They dance, they dance,

These children on the

Highland stage.


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