Dancers in Pink
They have clipped our wings, we will soar no more.
Magic that feeds us now deathly silent,
Until maestro’s baton starts the next score.
Oh quickly, we have energy not spent.
The rustling of the audience ceases,
We all hear tout suit and a cane tapping.
Orchestra prepares to play its pieces,
All dashing for proper positioning.
Plie, releve, saulte, each with grace of a dove.
The Maestro called for the strings, time to spin.
Ah, Pirouette always done with much love.
Being a dancer is love for certain.
Our hearts start racing when we touch the stage,
To be a ballerina at any age.