To all those who feel the call

The daughters of the West are fair
With their brown, auburn red, and
Flaxen hair, their eyes set,
Set so graceful, soft, and full of grace.

The daughters of the West, dancing in
Full sight, wishing the end was near;
The weight of shadows; past, present,
And future, a veil of sorrow unfolds.

Caught in the crossfire of lifes many styles,
It is the choice that reaches deep into
The spirit of their desire: What picture
Of today is the ruling reason.. and what have you lost?

The womb of the Race, so slow the pace
That exposes the lessening of the dance.
The cry within, so soft, so faint,
Breathes and lives within you
O Mother of the Race.

How many before you thought the same?
What were the answers to her desire?
You are here because of that desire;
The dance of yesteryear a full flowing cadence of Fate.

Today you are so unsure: what colour to wear
What name to bear..?
Enfolding your arms around empty space,
In yesteryear, it was a loss of face.

The dance was created for two or more,
And fear and trepidation a capitulation;
The will always be strong and weak,
This, the dance deems essential consolation.

So! Join the dance and share the Song.
To falter and waiver, leaves only the stranger.
And His dance knows not the song,
Our Swan Song: Our Love Song.

Daughters of the West, the path is clear.
To those that see the pattern and
The Footprints in the sand: It leads not to
The Sea, but into the Forest of green and
Rigid trees, a hall befitting the
Daughters of the Dance. The Future
Mothers(s) of the West.

Frank L DeSilva 1989-2006 ©