When Women Dance

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The sun began to rise.

Our dark night blanket 

of rite and ritual lifting,

revealing our well known valley,

our village below in greyscale. 

The sun yet to bring us back to reality.

To the blazing full colour of village life.

We have grown to say the sun,

but our moon.

Our beloved moon, 

our sacred and powerful secret keeper.

Halos and glowing shadows 

have seen the hidden story of our souls.

Without missing a beat,

we appear again in front of sewing machines and bread baskets. 

But as we walk hand in hand with our children to school,

we remember. 

We remember

our time dancing with the moon,

our mother moon.

We remember our tears, our joy and our power.

We moved all night

to drum beats like heart beats

set free from our bodies, 

voices no longer heard,

taken by the journey of sound.

Our men

waiting at home — maybe a bit sleepless.

As we unwind our hair,

treading barefoot in rhythm 

on damp ground.

We dance,

bass beat thumping,

drums calling our names individually.

We answer the call. 

Our women tribe. 

We rise

inside

like queens.

Our queendom is invisible to the eye.

Its borders expand beyond city walls.

No sun can reveal the domain of a queens reign.

We know no place we do not embrace, 

no being we cannot love.

All beings belong.

Then the sewing machine needle breaks, and we check the rising yeast, 

once again ensuring the children are learning the ways of the world. 

A drop of sweat 

rolls gently from our brow 

sliding down our face 

and caressing 

our chest.

Splash.

Its the same sweat 

that glistens and lights us up 

as we dance on the mountain at night,

drunk on moonlight, 

and some say madness.

But truly the mad ones 

are those who do not dance.

The ones who forgot.

But we do not forget them. 

Because the power of a dancing woman

does not end when the music falls silent. 

Our dance continues on.

In every heart beat, 

In everyday foot steps.

And even the gentle doorbell ringing

heralding a stately guest,

reminds us of our dance.

No where does a women who dances 

forget who she is. 

The world may shape and shade 

the boxes and cages 

in ways that feel like traps and trauma.

But as sisters we rise.

We rise and remember 

our song,

our dance,

our moon.

So that the sun can return to balance, 

even in spite of itself. 

And we 

get to return ourselves to

our

own

freedom.

When Women Dance by Bība - Listen on Soundcloud