Standing with a glass of wine,
swaying in a foreign time,
staying just behind the line,
swinging trumpet's golden shine.
Faces, gleeful, bounce.

I had stood here once before,
within the draught of yonder door;
A fleeting time, still fleeting more,
a face that I don't see no more.
A rhythm found in chance.

Now and then, I come this way,
to feel the candle's burning flame
touch upon my weary face
and take me to a time and place,
outside where I am now.

And with the light and laughter's sound,
the ghosts who live here gather round.
I feel their moves across the ground,
their time, a scene I have rewound;
"The Watching Of The Dance".