the dance

I was lucky enough to spend a few days in Buenos Aires a year or two ago - long enough to soak up some of the atmosphere and culture of that remarkable city.

It was half past midnight when the city came to life;
men who’d been working behind counters all day became matadors in the great game
and the girls, oh, the girls.

Miguel stopped to admire his face in the window;
only he could see the perfect parting in his slicked-back hair;
but he was there, he was there.

Dancing the night away, dancing the night away;
senors and senoritas leave their daytime lives behind and dance the night away.

Evita’s dress was sparkling as she posed beside the traffic light;
her mother had named her after some other angel from the past;
but she was there, she was there.

So the boys and the girls exchanged glances and smiles;
hoping that somehow tonight would be the night when their fantasies played
to the rhythm, the rhythm.

Dancing the night away, dancing the night away;
senors and senoritas leave their daytime lives behind and dance the night away.

As the band struck up that familiar melody,
bodies pressed close and the boys could smell the flowers in the girls’ hair,
but the touch, the touch.

Everyone was ready for that first dramatic step;
the girls in high heels and the boys in their Sunday best.

The morning draws near; first rays of dawn patrol the streets;
Evita holds Miguel and whispers in his ear that she won’t give herself to anybody else;
oh the kiss, the kiss.

And the band packs away their instruments and scores,
recalling nights just like this when they were young and just wanted to dance;
oh the dance, the dance.

Dancing the night away, dancing the night away;
senors and senoritas leave their daytime lives behind and dance the night away.

(©2002 Stewart Bowman)