You’ve spun and been spun,
you’ve lost and been won.
What we were will go unfound,
in our church, our dancing ground.
Rice, and wine, and bitter vinegars,
then reminding me to spin again.
Drinking with our accomplices,
and forgetting our accomplishments.
Lost in a storm of other sorrow,
we were absent on the morrow,
like the storm the memories passed,
but we’ll regret it to our last.
Other storms, other days, I’ve sold
myself to those who call me old.
Yet, the dance is there; what I gained,
and ultimately gave.