In a broken dream of hollow men I had my dancing days
and cursed at every postured look, at every mimicked phrase.
With a hungry arrogance I stole the beauty that I saw
for i thought no eye could out accuse the dancer on the moor.
So I danced on alone in anger at those I could not trust
I danced for the mad and the crippled
and danced for the welcoming dust
and I laughed in exultation, although my heart was sore
but that laugh became a prison cell for the dancer on the moor
For thought so well may guard the flesh that the heart itself turn sour,
a sorrow left unconsumate close every open door
and hate become a hungry flame growing hotter by the hour
that none who worship can escape, even the dancer on the moor
So I danced one last for the anger, I danced one last for the moor
I begged my brothers forgive my disdain and returned to the dancing floor
where each with their private passion, each with their secret awe
raised up their brave eyes in greeting to the dancer from the moor.
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