She stood in thrall to the Magyar
As, one hand cupped to a breast,
The other picked careful notes
From the guitar against his chest,
So they made a living figure
Sensuous and statuesque
Yet in in its way
Both comic and grotesque.
His foot tapped the rhythm
As he sang words of passion,
The stroking of his fingers
Near driving her to distraction.
An elegant Corps de Ballet pirouetted,
Here and there across the stage
And the blind percussionist thrashed
A kettle drum in state of frenzied rage.
The watcher watched from his dream
As the spotlight lowered to dim
Then swung slowly around to
Focus its harsh beam on him.
It was almost all too much
For any mortal man to take
So, screaming with despair,
He was rudely thrust awake.
Both woman and Magyar seared
To the very depths of his brain
His heart beating wildly to
Near bursting from the strain.
Images slowly fading
Until no longer there
He slipped back to sleep free
From any trace of his nightmare.
The puppet master eased the strings,
Let his marionettes hang limp and slack
Before packing them away
In their carrier on his back.
It was all a strange happening
In the name and cause of Art
Into which each participant
Unconsciously took his part.
The stage disappeared
The theatre was gone
The World of Abstract Dreams
Slowly shivered and moved on.
To allow no repeat
Of this macabre joke
The mirror resonated wildly
Until, shattering, it broke.
