At times, a rush of anticipation
would sweep through the crowd,
like a warm wind
waving across a ripe field
of golden wheat.

The spectators would sit.
Some would sigh;
the gladiators would take their positions
that they somehow knew
without rehearsal.

Suddenly,
a gleaming Chariot bursts through the gates,
on schedule,
kicking up grand dust of who knows who.
The crowd jumps to its feet
cheering loudly,
sending startled
civil birds
to flight.

"It's as if the whole world were here,"
beams the Charioteer,
smiling broadly,
waving, once again
at the peak of his glory.
The Sun,
brightly accenting his polished armor,
enhances his magnificence.

Have the games begun?

Unnoticed,
the Fool,
always ready to miss something,
drops a red petal from his high perch
on the coliseum wall.
It wafts down, like a slow eternity
— which it is —
falling to rest
with a soft,
cosmic
thump
on the Persian-rug floor
of a dream —
where the wisdom of the wise,
and the wizard,
and the doubtful —
goes unnoticed by all
but the closest at hand.

The soft sound echoes,
like tiny feet
pattering down
the sky-blue
marble
hallway
of infinity:
The music
to which they dance.
And dance they do.

Behind the lyrics of joy and sadness,
of daily expectation,
runs the rhythm of hope
and of ungraspable understanding.

"Will the music ever cease?"
softly mused the Hermit
smiling,
nodding,
climbing the ancient stairs.

"It's the song of lovers."

Night came;
the lights of the coliseum
went dark.
Everyone,
gladiators and spectators alike,
slept in place,
in full dress,
awaiting the morning,
while the rhythm continued,
pulsing softly,
incessantly,
reassuringly,
beneath them.