When you walked in
on the night of the festival,
the elders  were holding council in the hallway,
solemn and vigilant in their duties,
as they whispered in their native tongue.

With every unexpected white flash,
they collected the souls
of each self-conscious couple,
before granting their  passage
through the gymnasium door.
  
Inside, a  tribe of pimply-faced boys,
sprouting from worn out church jackets,
were rooted in their heavy boots,
near a line of girls in pink and red chiffon,
pasted like paper valentines along the wall.

Though we'd never met,
your blue eyes claimed me,
and your brilliant smile,
like an offering to the gods,
was the one I’ve always dreamed of.

Static hidden in the folds of my dress,
shot a cascade of black pearls
out onto the dance floor,
and I nested in your soft hair
and imagined they were kisses.

We buckled and swayed
to an ancient waltz, breathless,
two hearts beating
like ritual drums,
keeping time with grim determination.

Our youth condemned us
as strangers, to this primitive custom,
but the pulse of the music
became our mantra, and instinctively,
we understood every word.

Laughing  foolishly with each misstep
we clung tightly to one another,  
and allowed our  youthful spirit
to dance on, in perfect rhythm
to an age-old ballad that only we could hear.
  

.