When a Tanguero Falls in Love

The Harbor

When I discovered the harbor of your heart,

It was after a long voyage from across the ocean,

I did not know I was even getting close to discovering you

Until I first spotted gulls that guided me

To the continent of your character.

I saw your smile, a waterfall on your coastline,

And the sound of its soothing power

Was the first time I heard your voice.

On I sailed and I saw the curves of your mountains,

The flowing rivers of your long hair.

Suddenly a breath-robbing view overtook me –

Your harbor, your heart.

I felt immediately safe there.

I could see your harbor had no hidden shoals,

No murky waters and unknown dangers.

Your harbor is clear.

I can see to the bottom.

I am hypnotized by the playfulness

Of the dolphins that play in the waters of your soul.

I see that they are your youthful spontaneity.

Your harbor lulls me with waves of hope.

Your harbor is my place of refuge,

A weary vagabond sailor on a ship,
Once a captain, but now alone, afloat,

With tattered sails and no crew.


When I discovered the harbor of you heart,

I watched in wonder, and then impulsively,

I dove into the waters of your soul,

And played with the dolphins.

I was not a Cortez who came to conquer a continent.

Your continent, waterfalls, terrain, rivers, clear waters –

And especially your harbor – conquered me.

Tango: Balm or Addiction?

I am Addicted to Air,Water and Tango


I am addicted to air.
I try not to breathe but I just cannot seem to stop.
I am addicted to tango.
She and I synchronize our breathing.
We find a breath that defines the music as us.
This breathing addiction consumes me.

I am addicted to water.
I can go for about a day, but I give up.
I am addicted to tango.
The fluidity of movement washes over my soul.
I feel like I am truly alive and this fluidity purifies me.
My addiction to fluidity of motion consumes me.

I am addicted to food.
I can go without food during a fast, but I become weak.
I am addicted to tango.
The community of tangueros and tangueras nourishes me.
I realize how much I am hungry for connection.
My tango-fast cannot last.  I am am addicted.

I am addicted to shelter.
I try to be out in the open and rely just on myself,
But I become cold and wet or too hot, and give up my quest.
I am addicted to tango.
The world pelts me with cold rain or I wilt under its stress.
I try to be just myself, but I find myself once again seeking shelter
In her embrace.  I admit it -- pure addiction.

The embrace is my air -- call it an obsession if you wish.
The musical fluidity of movement is my water, truly my weakness.
The community of dancers my nourishment -- my addiction, I guess.
Tango's gestalt is my fortress, in the great hall we dance.
I am addicted, you might say...

But I say I am surviving life -- if joy be "survival."
Join me in my "addiction."
Come get your fix.





Photo credit:  http://www.allbestwallpapers.com/waterfall_wallpapers.html

Do not walk away! (poem)

Do not walk away from her.
Turn back! Ask her to dance!

You promised her you'd find her.
Yes, it took so long -- a whole life.

But if you hold her, she won't need her cane,
And you will drop yours.

The bandoneón will play
And restore the lost years.

Do not walk away.
Turn back! Ask her to dance!

Techno-Tanguera

[Note:  A cheesy poem for a cheesy subject.]

I left my smart-phone gladly at home.
Without a phone, I am free to roam.

It was the smart-thing gladly to do.
But now tangueras tonight are few.

The cortina plays, her face is alight
With a new text from a friend tonight:

"I wish I were dancing like you!"
Absent now are techos two.

As both are in their smart-phone dance.
I just stand here with no chance.



Tango etiquette may change over time, but as it now stands, not only in Buenos Aires but also in all the world, it is considered poor manners to be on a phone or texting at a milonga.  I suggest leaving the room if you have to text your children on directions to make macaroni and cheese, and other extremely important communications like this.  Men... please leave your phone in your car.  If you are on-call, as I have been, put the pager or a slim phone on vibrate and in your back pocket.  Just warn the woman if it is in your jacket or (not recommended) front pocket!


Photo credit:  http://mobileupdatecenter.com/mobile-news/facial-recognition-smartphones/attachment/smartphone-face-recognition/

Map in her Shoe Bag

She did not know it was lost.
But she found it at the milonga.
She was not even searching
Or wondering where it went.


She found a treasure map
Hidden in her shoe bag.
Which would take her
Back to what she had lost--

Her own precious worth.
She opened the map and read:

Appraisal Need

When I hold you and dance,
I know what a gem of life you are --
Not a diamond in the rough
But an exquisite polished stone
With so many facets to bend light,
With so much depth within your bounds!
Only an expert in detail can describe you
And only a child fully can sense your worth.

I feel your inestimable worth
in your breath,
in your joy of movement
in the glint of diamond-eyes.

You, however, are the ultimate appraiser
Of your worth, your facets, your tone and timbre.
You must celebrate your uniqueness and beauty.

You are both the gem
And the appraiser.
Notice your detail.
Let your inner child
Sense your worth:

Priceless.

She looked up and took his hand --
The one who watched her finish the poem.
They danced, but all had changed.
She danced in a new way,
No longer on a trip to find the forgotten,
She danced as she did as a little girl --
With innocent confidence.

Brilliant. 

Radiant. 

Priceless.

Photo credit:

http://www.48days.com/2011/08/30/need-a-new-map-for-your-life/treasure-map/

Be a Man!

Knight, Queen and Castle

Be a Man!
      by Mark Word

I go to work and I am the only man

Among all my colleagues.

A soldier tells me his story and cries:

He awakes after thirty-two days.

He sees the lead they took out of his brain.

He finds that eight of his friends are dead.
They haunt him.

In therapy he remembers for the first time

That his mother was there and stroked his hair,
As he awoke from his month of deathlike sleep.

A green blanket was around her neck, he says.

All this, he remembers five years after the fact,

In an office of two men, talking.

He now knows that his mother brought him

To life yet a second time, a rebirth.

We cry.  We men.

His most terrible moment transforms

To a moment of pure joy for his mother.

Her son came back to life!

Now he is changed -- forever -- by remembering.

We talk to each of the warrior-spirit friends.

They tell him to live on, what he would want for them. 

He feels forgiven for returning from his death-sleep.
It is not his fault he lived, they say.

We cry.  We men.

She goes to work among men.
Her boss needs her expertise

And asks her counsel

On the minutiae of legal things.

She wears slacks and fits in.

They discuss policy.

They discuss international law.

But at the milonga,

I embody the male energy embedded in my soul.

I protect her as she closes her eyes.

I navigate her away from the danger

That she does not even see

Because she entrusts this to me.

I am her knight, she rides with me.

I know the way to the castle.

She trusts me to take the reigns

Of the power beneath us.

I am her minstrel,

Playing our steps like a mandolin,

To an ancient song of dance.

At the milonga, she wears her dress,

And slips on her highheels.
She chooses her clothes not to fit in,

Or to be like others.
Her earrings match her shoes.

She dons -- no, embodies --
Womanhood's feminine energy.

Her soft, close embrace and trust

Invites me to be a man, fully.

We are a man and a woman.

For one tanda at a time.

The milonga seems like reality,

Our work, but a dream.

Photo credit:  http://www.thechesspiece.com/proddetail.asp?prod=G-264-BTF

Soul Dancing

I hold her and listen.
The pictures flash through my mind,
And I know about her life more 
Than she would tell if asked.
I sense that her history is a labyrinth
That she herself has not mastered.
She is so young but has lived so much.
I feel the joy of dance counterpoised with great mourning and loss.
The music encrypts the moment with its own mysterious message.
And I am in awe once again that tango is not just
  the skill of movement,
  the music,
  the embrace.
Tango is about the embrace of one human being, one soul,
Who transforms me if I will let it happen.
But so often I forget this Most Simple Thing.


Post Script:
I have learned to listen and believe that through embrace we are able to sense more than we might allow ourselves to believe possible.  This poem is dedicated to a young Eastern European woman, with whom I danced in a small town.  She was a beginner and did not dance very well.  I tried to hold her as if she were very special and feel her presence.  I felt if I did not do this, I would be just tortured with an unsatisfying dance.  In doing so, I discovered something that I already deeply knew inside of me:  That one can dance with another soul and this is supremely satisfying.   In talking with her later, I found out what I had sensed from holding her -- that her life was very complex:  A life with no contact with family and no way to return.  I did not ask her why.  She "escaped" through Russia, a bizarre path to freedom that my mind's paradigms cannot understand easily.  I think we all are capable of more soul dances.  Many of you have experienced this.  If you haven't, try it.  See what happens.


Research on this theme:  http://www.spring.org.uk/2011/04/10-psychological-effects-of-nonsexual-touch.php

Photocredit:
Sculptor:  "Dancers" by Jonathon Borofsky; unknown photographer in Denver, Colorado.  If you know who who took this, please share that with me.

The Dance of Life

The Dance of Life is not the movement of bodies alone
But of hearts and souls and minds as your life and my life have shown.

This Dance is not just joy or celebration of a day
But a dance of valleys and peaks -- all what a soul can say.

So hold me and maybe I will laugh or perhaps cry.
The Dance of Life is a silent embrace without a why.


--Mark Word, the Tango Therapist

Sometimes She Guides Me

Trust:  "Embraced movement while in the dark."

Sometimes she guides me
   by Mark Word

On the dance floor she closes her eyes.
She accompanies me in darkness,
Trusting that she is safe.
Sometimes she says that she felt
As if we had traveled far and wide,
Yet we had only gone a few meters.
Sometimes we have traveled far
But she was hypnotized 
By a simple walk and she felt
As if time and space had stopped.


But in life, sometimes I close my eyes,
And I accompany her in darkness,
Trusting in her wisdom and kindness.
Sometimes I look up,
And my goals are nearer
Because of her.
Sometimes space and time
Stop in her loving arms.


My tango with her is more than a dance.
It is the art of embracing life.






Photo credit:
http://hillary-sarahskey.blogspot.com/2010/12/eyesight-in-sarahs-key-and-king-lear.html

The Two who Follow (poem)

We lose our inhibitions when we are 
possessed by the Voice and dance to her song.

The Two who Follow

            by Mark Word

The bandoneonista plays with such passion,
I wonder if he is in ecstasy or pain.
I am drawn to accompany him--
The other musicians as well--
In our collective hypnotic trance.
Together we bring to life the dots on paper 
Of a composer who wept after he first heard 
His tango painted in the air,
Brushed with the bow of violins,
Shaped by the percussive blows 
Of the piano's hammers on strings,
Composed of the amalgamation of feelings,
Made pliable by fire of passion,
Stoked red hot by the bandoneón´s bellows.
And brought to life by men and women,
Moved to sculpt out a visual tango,
A moving, breathing, dancing work of art.


Like thousands before us, I stand to join
The men and women before me and sculpt
With my co-collaborator, my compañera.
In our art of tango we begin with our eyes,
Which meet in a private, secret moment,
Containing all the passion of every woman and man
Who have held each other since the world began.
These were the roles which we did not choose 
Because they chose us.  They chose us!
We embraced these roles and then each other.


She holds me and allows me her space,
To feel her heart's rhythm.
Our ears hear the same voice,
Every move we sense through 
  our fingers,
    our arms and shoulders,
      her breasts against mine.
Our entire being melts together,
Our divine and earthly auras entwined.
She feels my chest fill with air
In tandem with the breath of the bandonéon.
The three of us begin a new melodic line,
A new musical phrase with its own story.
Her posture allows me to take a step
On a path I never have been.
I switch my weight, and we step forward
On our left feet, my leg against hers.
I push forward and her body tells me
That she is present, fully there.
Her body says, "Go slow, enjoy this moment."
The music and her presence
Bring us both forward on a new beat.
Led by the music, we join the violins,
Their pizzicato plucking on two and four,
Something I had never noticed before.
I circle her on her outside,
Left thigh to left thigh.
This is path I have never trod,
A vista I have never seen,
With sounds I have never heard.


La Música stops us in her familiar way,
With a flury of notes,
But her last sound is a grace note--
Soft, tender... a prelude to silence.
My companion and I stand in silence,
Her leg entwined with mine,
As if not to let me go too fast,
As if to hold us for a moment more as one,
Balanced and strong--
A sculpture finally still,
A monument to the moment.


I look at her and silently nod.
I have no words.
But I know one thing:
I will never call a tanguera,
"The-one-who-follows" again.
We heard the voice together.
We became one.
We became "the-two-who-follow."

The composer sculpts the music, and the music, us.

Post Script:
Passion is intense feelings.  Passion is the producer.  Thoughtful insight is the director.  I strive for my blog to have a producer/director -- a balance of passion and thoughtfulness.  I don't think I did a very good job with balance because even a dear friend chastised me with my lack of finesse (a nicer word than deserved).  Sometimes I am clueless.

The last post, "Follower: A job without promotion," was all about the problem of using the the terms "follower/leader" in tango.  One comment by "Nancy" asked if my bias colored my feelings.   My response was that of course my bias colors my feelings!  From the overwhelming majority of comments, I can see that I failed to portray my what was on my heart words of reason and prose -- too much passion of the mind.  So I tried once again with this poem... passion from the heart is kind and humble.

Photo credit:
Dancing couple:  http://fineartamerica.com/featured/dancing-couple-deepali-gosain.html
Visit the sculptor's webpage:  http://tango-beat.blogspot.com/2011/06/follower-job-without-promotion.html 
para MSRS

Simplicity in not Complicated

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Leonardo da Vinci

This poem for some reason came out in Spanish first.  Translation in to English follows by the cheapest translator I could find -- me.  The original is below in Spanish.

Simplicity is not Complicated

The milonga, yes, is as life goes.

In life I look for explanations for everything,

But life is so simple that I do not find

The answers to all my questions.

Tango knocks on our hearts,

And your embrace as we walk

Changes into a a path of light

Which leads me to the truth:

The milonga, yes, is as life goes:

Connection, whether spiritual

Or through your embrace

Contains all the profundities of simplicity.

La Sencillez no es Complicada

        por Mark Word

La milonga, sí, es como la vida.

En la vida busco explicaciones para todo,

Pero la vida es tan sencilla que no encuentro

Las respuestas a todas las preguntas mías.

El tango toca a la puerta de nuestro corazón,

Y tu abrazo mientras caminamos

Se transforma en un sendero de luz

Que me lleva a la verdad.

La milonga, sí, es como la vida:

Una conección, sea espiritual o a travez del abrazo

Contiene todas las profundidades de la sencillez.

Tango in Hell and Heaven

No sore feet.  Be good.

Heaven's angles dance tango.
Hell's angels dance tango.
But heaven's angels dance
All night without sore feet.
So be good. Live well.

It will all be worth it.

Connection and Vulnerability

Music moved me...towards you
by Mark Word

I told myself I would not dance.
I was afraid I would make myself foolish.

I told myself I would not prance,
Like that drunk friend of mine, over-smiling.

This time I would not allow the chance
Of vulnerability and the taste of hurt again.

The music started and I caught your glance,
And I saw how it moved you to be just who you are.

My mind took us back--a bonfire and chants,
To my ancient need to touch and be the music.

Music pried open my soul and made my body dance,
Music pried open my heart and inside I found you.



This poem was preparation for this "story telling" video clip (below) on the search for the meaning and value of vulnerability.  What does it means to be "whole-hearted" and vulnerable to you?

I told my son recently that if I were a terrible father he would not mourn my death in the future.  If parents want to spare their children from the pain of bereavement and loss, they should be aloof and avoid being vulnerable to their children or even avoid love altogether! 

The way of love expects hurt, and does not search ways to numb the pain of love -- drugs, food, avoidance.  This is the paradox of life, that those who engage in life expose their hearts and truly live a life worth living, a life of connection.  Do not be surprised by the words of tango -- they are messages of love and the normal hurt of the vulnerable heart.



This post was both a "break" from "The Psychology of Music" and a preparation for the last installment of the series. Tomorrow: "The Psychology of Music, part 3," subtitled:  "The First Dance."  Insights from tango instructors and a short film by a neurological anthropologist, which should put the whole subject together nicely.  ¿Hasta entonces?


Photo credit:

shutterstock.com

Death of my Tanguera

When love exceeds the beauty of heaven

La Muerte de Anabel, mi Tanguera
by Mark Word

My friends were sure our souls entwined.
   They saw us dance as one,
That we, our love, had surely defined
   a love bright as the sun.

Our purpose was to love each other --
   two souls, two lives on the run.
The gods, envious of a love so pure,
   placed her in her coffin.
A tragic death, the papers said,
   a life not yet begun!
They took from me a love so true,
  forbidden a mere human.

Milongas without her presence now
  are songs all spent and sung.
No spring to my feet and no place to hide,
  I'm Adam alone in Eden.
I wait not for heaven or a better place.
  Our heaven was a beacon,
Whose beam shone brighter than heaven's light,
  so they sent death's coachman
On the path of light that led to us
  and a love they yet have known.




This poem is a dedicated to my son, Benjamin and a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe.  I was delighted to read through some of Poe's work with Ben, who is 17 and in an English class in Germany.  We discussed a paper he was doing on Poe, and I was struck with his thoughtful exegesis on several of Poe's works.  One was a poem, "Annabell Lee" (below).  This sad poem references the untimely death of Poe's wife.  Although the poem was dark and painful, it was also a tribute to the human experience -- that human love and life are so precious that even the seraphs were envious.  The ancient Greeks believed that human life is far better than the bleak existence in the shadows of the afterlife.  Today's religious belief makes out human life as a mere shadow of that to come.  Personaly, I see God's love as far more benevelent than E.A. Poe and today's popular theology, but just in case the world does come to an end on the 21st of May (as perdicted), I thought I would get this out! 

Although I do not believe that things get worse after this life we know, please imagine seeing the value of our present life as being so precious that it even the angles are envious of what we have!  I do wonder if the angles are envious when I dance at times.  Also, this sense of "it doesn't get any better" describes my love for my children, Ben and Toby.
Here is Poe's poem in its entirety:


Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of Annabel Lee--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
  I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we--
  Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And so, all the night-tide, I lay down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
  In the sepulchre there by the sea--
  In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Photo Credit:  

http://titania86-fishmuffins.blogspot.com/2009/10/edgar-allan-poe-part-2.html  

Her Empty Chair at the Milonga (poem)

We leave her chair empty, hoping she will return.

The chair she always found 
Is empty--no red, tattered shoe bag
Reserving her spot as she danced.

I notice the lonely chair
The first night of her absence.
I ask about her.
I call. She says she's on holiday.
Tango's become a chore.

Days turn into months
Without her presence.
Her loss is my absence.
The bell tolls for me too.
Her loss is our absence.
It is us; it is me.

I mourn my own frailty to abandon
Love or kindness or an embrace.
The struggle of being fully engaged in life,
The drama surrounding waking in an embrace,
The drama surrounding the walking embrace
Can be more than we --
More than I--can stand.
Is it worth it?

Why do we quit love?
   The love of movement,
   The love of being held,
   The love of a walking as one?
Ask any lover, and the voice will belie
The connection the heart desires.
The excuses of disconnection are many
For which our heart has no words or reason.

So this is my song to you, tanguera!

(I pull out my guitar and say...)
Se llama este vals cruzado...
Silla de Soledad

There's a season for all of these things,
But your hand in mine--that lasts forever.
There's a song in your soul which still sings,
Of the bonds inside you, you must sever.

There's a season to make bonds anew,
When the soul again needs you to share.
There's a cry out of empty dance shoes
Which is asking you once more to dare.

And a haunting song plays still within,
From a tango played deep from your heart.
"Tell me when you'll return to your place!
And when will your soul's dance yet start?"

So do what your soul now most loves.
And when you return I'll embrace you.
So do what your soul now best does.
And when you return, I'll embrace you.

When you return.
When you return.
And when you return, 
I'll embrace you.

Note:  "Silla de Soledad" means 

Chair of Loneliness  

The idea for this poem came from an announcement from a fellow tango blog-ista, "the Tango Bitch," who was a bit disillusion with the milonga scene (22 Apr 2011):   http://thetangobitch.wordpress.com/.  Be kind to those around you. Embrace them and let their soul get out on the playground to play with other.  We need each other.

Photo credit: 
http://visualphotos.com/image/2x2689642/empty_chair_casting_shadow

Mother's Day

Te amo mucho, Mami

Sometimes love is blind.




Better than the Gods 

She loved me unconditionally.
She loved me
Before I knew what love was.
She cared for me when I could not,
And when I was sick.
I met her when she was already forty.
She was experienced in life --
A wise soul ...
She showed me what others just talk about.
Unconditional love she gave me
Whether I was good or bad.
Even the gods cannot give me that.
And if the gods should decide
That she be in heaven
And I in hell,
She will still abide in my heart forever.


In dedication to the little girl, Ruth Irene Austin, who changed her name 
and became my mother as Ruth Word.

Tango Praying Hands (poem)

Tango Praying Hands

One hand is yours;
One hand is mine.
Our prayer is to connect.
Our hearts pound together.

We hear the external music,
But listen for an internal beat,
Waiting for moments of stillness
So our heartbeat can be felt.

We form a cathedral door,  apilado --
A human arch, moving to sacred music,
With rhythmic roots in Africa,
Heavenly harmonies from Europe.

We congregate to celebrate life,
Unafraid to embrace even a stranger,
In a world which vainly seeks connection
By phone and computer for fear of touch.

Will you pray with me?
It's a prayer that has two hearts
Put close together in the hopes
That our spirits will do the same.

We do not pray that heaven soon come,
Because it has found us for the moment.
Our hands together is the eternal now;
Such is the tango prayer.

Congregation of believers in Denver

Photo credit:
Hands
http://www.davidsanger.com/stockimages/8-801-5804.tango

Congregation (Denver Milonga 2010) -- Mark Word

Lovers at First Sound (poem)

Lovers at First Sound

Two vistors at the milonga

Sit at the tables, just to watch.

Their eyes follow a dancing couple,

And whisper,

"Certainly they are lovers.
The way they look at each other
In silence and nod;

How without a word

She follows him out to dance."

He leads her by the hand in silence.
They share a knowing, silent stare.

They come closer and lean together,
Connecting, heart to heart as lovers do.

Watching each others' hands,

They connect as if it were their ritual.

A new phrase in the music suddenly becomes
The movement of two who have become one. 

"Certainly these two are lovers.

Surely, they have danced for years.
Look how their legs entwine,

Their passion!"
The two visitors whisper.

The couple dances a silent conversation, not a word,

They paint a masterpiece of love on the wooden floor,
A mural of their lives together, their passion.
How many times did they practice that --

The perfectly punctuated movements to the the music?

"Surely that must be their favorite song,
Danced a thousand times," she whispers.

And then suddenly -- or so it seems to the visitors –
The dancers stop. . .magically stop with the music.
He leads the third vistor, his dance partner, to her chair.

And the others overhear him say:
 "I so enjoyed dancing with you,
  I hope we can dance again tonight
  and anytime you might come to town!"

"But certainly they were lovers!"

Those watching silently wonder.

And yes,

They were lovers.

For that moment.

For that tango.

Lovers at first sound.

Note:  

This is a revised poem that originally appeared in November 3, 2009 as my first tango poem on Tango-Beat, titled "The Three Guests."

If the Cello could play the Violin (poem)

If the Cello could play the Violin
What music would he play?

If the Violin could play the Cello,
What song would she first play?
If she could hear his harmony,
What would she sing?

I hear a tango, inspiring mortals to dance.
I see the Cello, painting a canyenge background.
I feel her wet, soft tear
Fall upon the Cello's shoulder.

I hear the Violin recite a sonnet,
A story of love, joy and sorrow,
Told by her four vocal cords with his bow.
I feel his sonorous lows, rocking her,
Her soprano melody playing my heart.

You are that Violin.
I am your Cello.
Let’s play a heavenly tango.
Together.
Each other.
For our souls to dance.


 

Photo Credit:  http://www.terminartors.com/artworkprofile/Bereny_Robert-Woman_Playing_Cello