She dance – the Paupers dance;
In a whirlwind of colour, hypnotising her victims.
She spins and twirls;
Her dress matching her, move for move.
The crowd bursts into cheers.
They sing, shout, and follow her in her wake.
They are zombies heading to a slaughter house;
The gallow will be their garland.
She is halfway through her turn,
Like a ballerina, she pauses…
For a second… she contemplates suicide.
The crowd goes on cheering.
Her turn is almost complete,
The crowd is silenced.
She faces them head on.
All the while her feet are an enigma,
Moving to the sound of silence.
Coaxing her head sideways… she smiles the devil’s smile;
Reveling in every bit of the ash-stricken faces dedicated to her.
“Who are you ?” What do you want from us ?
The questions reverberated from lips marred with fear.
She smile widely.
The could not see it.
She smiled her widest.
They saw nothing.
“W-h-h-ho are you? ”
She began to twirl again,
In a torrent of anguish- dark, cold, forbidden.
Stopping, she faced the trembling crowd;
Her faceless face beckoned them to ask again.
Like a broken record, she dared them to ask the questions nobody ever asked.
Just as their mouths opened,
Their eyes opened.
And they saw themselves
Twirling in the Pauper’s dress.