Within the silent theatre’s sleeping walls,
Does an echo of performance dare to dwell?
When no soul in the darkened chamber calls,
Does art, unseen, still cast a vibrant spell?
A lone ballerina’s pirouette,
Spun with the grace of whispered solitude,
Exists as truly as the sun does set,
Though no eyes will judge the view.
For art, when unobserved, retains its form,
As does the nightingale’s unheard refrain;
It needs no gaze to validate its norm,
Nor applause to justify its pain.
Thus, though unknown, the act remains pure,
The essence, born of hope and love, endures.
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