Last night we took off our wolf skins, and danced
For hours, stomping our feet on the old rug. We were
Sand heaps breaking up in someone else’s hands.
It was when we sang the same four bars over
And over that we gradually went mad
On one precious foot that was never put down.
We couldn’t tell for a while where the door was
Or where the corners were. We didn’t know if it was
Our crying or someone else’s that filled the room.
What good will all this dancing do for anyone?
Oh, it’s nothing; it will never do any good.
It’s as precious as a hundred hours of prayer.
We have no idea why our bodies are jumping
Up and down, nor why our throats are full of sound.
All our years of everything have come to nothing.
We couldn’t tell where the walls and floor were.
We lost all our certainty as we danced in the heat.
All our years of everything have come to this.