La valse à mille temps

At the first count of the waltz, she closed her eyes to see.

A secret hymn, a floating dream, a quiet reverie.

A three count waltz gave her the time to sway.

A world spun soft in rhythm’s arms, where shadows danced away.

At four counts, hands rose like leaves in autumn’s wistful air.

They caught the light, they touched the notes, as if they lingered there.

The music turned, she led its path, the wind - her grand ballet.

Her fingers traced the echoes born of strings that wove the day.

A waltz at twenty called the breeze, now fiercer, wild, alive.

An autumn gust that swept her heart, a storm that dared to thrive.

Each turn became a spiral drawn in love and restless flight.

A pirouette of passion spun through day and into night.

A hundred count waltz possessed her fragile, fleeting mind.

Each step, a maze of fleeting time she struggled to unbind.

Her breath was stolen, lost in swirls of sound and pounding drum.

A dance so vast, it swallowed worlds, yet beckoned her to come.

At thousand counts, the waltz became the clock she couldn’t still.

It measured days she’d never know, and dreams she’d yet to fill.

The city hummed, a living pulse beneath its ancient guise.

Where Paris danced to maman’s tune beneath its starlit skies.

Oh, la valse à mille temps, it carries her away.

Through seasons, moments, endless spins, to where the music plays.

Each step, a lifetime’s fleeting breath, a thousand years undone.

A waltz eternal, endless time, and yet she’s just begun.