Smoke from the souvla laced the air,
And swirled with the pipe smoke coiling there,
A lone musician began to pipe,
And then her figure moved out of the night.
Regarding us, she nodded and walked,
My cheeks flushed as my eyes she caught,
And then she stood statue still,
Silence engulfed the air, suspense that could kill.
With the piper, a voice did join,
She moved so smoothly, not a sound from the coins,
Hips in the left, breasts on the right,
How bone and flesh could cause such a sight.
Swaying to the rhythm of the voice of the song,
The wave of her body was soft and long,
Her face at peace, yet in a trance,
Profound meaning in her dance.
Glancing toward the band she gave the drummer a wink,
The little gypsy boy grinned back but blinked,
She chortled, the beat commenced,
In our divine capture, thoroughly fenced.
Her hips fell, as if crashing from the skies,
Whipping faster than lightning defies,
Tak tak tak short and sharp,
Dum dum dum she held my heart.
Her coin belt jangled connected to that beat,
Beneath her skirts moved delicate feet,
Cheers of Wopa! Praised this beauty,
She whirled on: pleasure not duty.
The music got faster and the souvla spat,
And us, on the edge of our chairs sat,
Beginning to shiver her subtle shake
As if rising from mother-earth quake.
The beat ceased and so did the song,
The lone piper carried on,
She bid her goodbye and we were freed,
"Come enslave us again!" I plead.
