There were dances, then.  Ones that left such sweet traces behind; little flowers, new life, unseen before.

We were all so happy.  Songs left ache & joy, made us so very glad to be alive.  The hate and sorrow for ourselves, our frailty & ugliness, was washed away in tunes of appreciation.  It was Love, I think, magical, mysterious, and unseen.

We'd love one another and show how we felt because words were paltry, not enough for compassion and love.  The dance and song would wash our scars, creating beauty through admiration.

I'd hated my face, thought it monstrous.  A dancer had known, through the Love, the magic.  Twirling beside, yet in front, of me, melting eyes to eyes, she told me I too am beautiful.  All without a sentence other than the breath of a soul crooning Love, a wondrous ballad upon her lips.

Yet beauty led to vanity, and vain I became.  She left, heavy-stepped, as she pranced to another, almost out of tune... almost.  Still, the last glance before taking another's hand, one who needed purity and reassurance, gave forgiveness.

This was our circle, our coven, our dance.  All was accepted, because all were True.  Desire to be Pure was enough; though I still remember that last look with anguish.

She danced with all of us, our fae lady, yet there seemed no time left for her...