26 May The Dancing Plague, By James Edward Kennedy
Strasbourg, Alsace
1518
It’s the sin that begins without a sound,
Like a spark in the dark with none around.
It tickles the funny bone; plays with the toes.
It’s a sneeze of the body and not of the nose.
It’s a tremble, a tremor, a merciless need.
It rumbles within—green, terrible greed
That erupts and corrupts when it’s finally free
From its prison within—from gnawing at thee.
You can try to ignore it, pretend it’s not there.
Stay busy, be focused, remain unaware.
Keep denying, defying the whispers that say
Oh, the turn of that heel! And these hips, how they sway!
Whether working the field, or tending your babes—
Don’t you dare touch that drink at the end of the day.
Spirits invigor the blood of the beast,
But the thing it wants more than ale or mead?
Complete loss of control and release of the mind
Leaving a place for the foe to reside,
With a throne and crown to rule over victims,
Invade every limb; pull, prod, and constrict them.
Don’t be drawn in by the pleasure it brings;
Its vice has no value, for it’s a false King.
And the bounce in your step and the hop in your jump,
The tap of your foot as you jiggle your rump—
All might be quite fun—first, you may have a laugh.
You’ll enjoy this sweet feeling, but soon be aghast.
It’s a spider inside with nine webs you should fear,
Affixed to the spine, feet, hands, shoulders, and ears.
When it tugs on the lines, it forces the dance.
You may think it’s a choice, or just pure happenstance.
But the master of puppets holds you in thrall.
As a bastard of muppets you must heed his call.
So, dance, little poppet—dance, dance as you must.
Come out on the rooftop, kick up the dust.
Skip out in the garden to twist, twirl, and thrust.
Spin out of your yard by the light of the moon,
Past neighbours who spy and listen for a tune.
Through flowers, and farmland—smoke rising in plumes,
Down the path not for dancing, but only for toil.
Any who see you, look on—then recoil
As if from a wraith, or some wretched gargoyle.
And those who approach and ask, “how do you fare?”
Blinded by kindness, foolish, unaware,
They too will soon see they’re vastly unprepared.
The beast won’t be sated by your dance alone.
It infects and collects all the hearts that you own.
Your love and your kin will soon bow to the throne.
Though you long for salvation, to be unpossessed,
Don’t ask for their aid if you know what’s best,
Lest they too begin dancing with no chance of rest.
Those who dare touch you, or get close, will find
The demon that moves you will soon take their mind.
They’ll join you in torment and leave life behind.
Boots fly from beneath, and their arms turn to wings,
Flapping and snapping, feet crossing in springs.
Like you, they become otherworldly things.
“Alsatians! Beware! There’s a vile temptation
Held by those consumed in pulsating gyrations!”
Together, now dancing, you panic as one.
Three more will join you; the plague has begun.
A troop now of dancers who march through the square.
The pox will not stop; it takes everyone there.
Suns rise and set; the nights come and go.
Seasons pass with dancing—it’s all that you know.
Forever and ever, you’ll dance ‘til you’re dead,
And then you’ll keep dancing, just dancing instead
Of dropping and resting, no peace in your grave.
“Even in death, no dancers are saved.”
You’ll dance ‘til the flesh comes loose from your bones.
Dance ‘til your eyes can’t call your head home.
And as the things of this world decay to the dirt,
Your ghost will keep dancing, all across the earth.