The floors are slippery with blood: <br />The world gyrates too. God is good <br />That while His wind blows out the light <br />For those who hourly die for is – <br />We still can dance each night. <br /> <br />The music has grown numb with death – <br />But we will suck their dying breath, <br />The whispered name they breathed to chance, <br />To swell our music, make it loud <br />That we may dance, - may dance. <br /> <br />We are the dull blind carrion-fly <br />That dance and batten. Though God die <br />Mad from the horror of the light – <br />The light is mad, too, flecked with blood, - <br />We dance, we dance, each night.<br /><br />Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dancers-during-a-great-battle-1916/
