[syndicate] pas d'une

[Alan Sondheim]

pas d'une


In the distant future, a dancer will be seen, at the edge of the space of
dance, immersed in her world,
Ah shall this dancer be nameless, shall skull-bones, dust-bones tell any
story other than that of a misidentified corpse,
Shall grace still be among them, graciousness, will this remnant speak,
of a world in which some were still peaceful, unwilling to slaughter,
unwilling to be slaughtered,
For the youth of a dancer is lost, before the dancer's youth, and the
dancer's body is lost, before the body of the dancer,
And that so early and lone among the furious travesties of a wounded
world,
And the cause, and the choreography, and the choreographer, all lost,
And the circle of friends, gone, gone, even the idea of friendship,
And names and places and languages, all, gone and all gone,
This trace of the dancer remains, against the wall of plague and
pestilence, against the wall of radiation, wall of heat and inundation,
wall of fire and thirst, wall of starvation,
"no one to see the trace, no one to remember, nothing to remember, no
memory at all,"
No dancer walking now among us, dancing in the corner of a stage in
Geneva, immersed in the world of dance, immersed in the dancing world.

http://www.asondheim.org/maudlone.mov Maud Liardon before performance