The Troubadour's Flute - Cyprus Poems

A beautiful young girl enchants the boys in this coming-of-age poem.

We were both exquisite dancers.
Tranced in the scent of prime tobacco
from the burnt-out valley, we twirled each
day at noon on a highly polished music box
all through the scorching days of summer.

Such tours en l'air! Such arabesques!

The Venetian Lion was delirious

with illicit visions of seasons yet to come
and perfumed nights still to savour.

The god-fearing master was appalled.
In vain, he struck his shiny copper bell

summoning the errant child to school
but the troubadour’s lightsome flute

lured her into nights of cinnamon

and into the arms of frenzied goblins.

The danseuses and I recall the grandeur
of her nightly moves; the diva was sublime.

I took on the heavy burden of her youth
— though such a task was never easy —

and thanked her for her kindness.

Now, I mourn the artless decades lost.

Wrecked and wretched, the theatre still

stands by the indulgence of the ageless

censor but the prima ballerina has not

graced its stage for years.