Judith Wright
O where does the dancer dance –
the invisible centre spin –
whose bright periphery holds
the world we wander in?
For it is he we seek –
the source and death of desire;
we blind as blundering moths
around that core of fire.
Caught between birth and death
we stand alone in the dark,
to watch the blazing wheel
on which the earth is a spark,
crying, Where does the dancer dance –
the terrible centre spin,
whose flower will open at last
to let the wanderer in?
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