A grey rock cliff.

Slow cascading water. 

The drop mere inches, into a pond,

no, a puddle.

Age visits for a thousand years until

the water screams and pounds on the rock.

It falls feets, miles, yards? Which is easier

to imagine?

A stage.

The floor makes love to shoes,

with nails hammered in them to keep the

feet forever trappped.

Fuesa yells the feets ownew as the

plantas increase in speed,

to the sound of palmas y guitarras

and the voz of a hurly man

with a gritty voice.

 Together, the waterfall and the bailarin

pound vicioulsy yet with grace;

with a passion made from 

pure self-pleassure.

The waterfall will not end its dance,

it will be friends with Age for centuries 

but Age will not be as kind to the dancer.

The dancers' feet will sore,

back will creak,

knees will buckle.

But she will always yell 

Eso es! Fuesa! and walk with

loud feet, chest up, pompi in,

shoulders back and ganas in her eyes.