The Dancer Poem by Christoph Praus

It was a great plum pleasure,
To see that striking mill of measure,
And treasure her signal dancing old,
Winding peaceful into cold;

Mine marrow chilled to my core,
Till I could not bear to stand it more,
So stand it not as I fell,
And dragged myself into hell;

When the wind arrived and I awoke,
I stared at her and Dancer spoke,
And she asked what I'd become,
But I had no voice and answers, none.