When Hope Learns to Dance
The world is heavy drenched in grief,
It’s time for TV’s soft relief.
A single twinkle in the eye
can tilt the earth, can lift the sky.
Not hatred’s weight, but humor’s fire,
A dancer’s gift, a true desire.
No guns that roar, but glitter’s frame.
From every land, the coaches came.
I do not measure, do not weigh,
I simply watch them find their way.
Each step, each turn, a quiet proof
that skills are learnt and hearts take root.
And in this craft, we’ve learn the same
that joy survives, and hopes remain.
By Janet Bosson
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