In front of a roaring fire
in the dead of night
the witching hour,
the dance began.
Muses, the fates,
all in the form of women,
swaying as if taken hold of by
seductive strains of music flowing forth
from the musicians' instruments.
Their long braided hair swinging to and fro
the music floating eerily upon the night.
A mournful tune that echoed the sorrows
of a poor man's life.
As the fates continued their dance
their steps becoming more and more intricate,
their motions evermore rapid,
flowing from form to form
the climax, the height of the dance
weaving in and out of the firelight.
Then suddenly the dancers melted into the shadows,
the firelight diminishing, leaving a haunting
black stillness which only stars vaguely illuminated
this dance we call life.