The Roar of Tradition

In the throng of the festival's heart, they wake,

Two dancers beneath the lion's vibrant skin.

With a leap and a bound, tradition they partake,

To the drum's rhythmic call, the dance begins.

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Golden manes flicker in the morning sun,

Eyes like lanterns, aglow with stories old.

Each movement a tale of battles won,

A dance of courage, bold and brightly told.

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Silken fur ripples in the festive air,

Clashing cymbals, a symphony of might.

Through the crowd, they weave with graceful flair,

A dance to dispel shadows, welcome light.

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Mystic creature of the celestial realm,

Guardian of wisdom, strength, and realm.

With every twist and turn, a captain at the helm,

Guiding the community, a steady elm.

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Children watch with eyes wide, hearts alight,

Elders nod, in the dance, seeing more than sight.

For in the lion's prance, in its gentle bite,

Lies the spirit of a culture, holding tight.

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As the dance concludes, the lion bows low,

The crowd erupts, in joyous cheer they bask.

For in the lion's dance, the seeds they sow,

Of unity, joy, and hope — an endless task.

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So let the lion dance, let the drums roar,

In every leap, our collective spirits soar.

With each year's turn, let us explore,

The dance of lions, now and forevermore.

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