It's Still Life

Csárdás — (myth in the bones, fire in the blood)

It begins with a single note.
Thin. Aching.
A thread of winter smoke
unraveling from a fiddle.

The room stills.
Dust rises like memory.
Somewhere in that sound
is a field at dusk,
an empty chair,
a story your grandmother once whispered
when she thought you were asleep.

But then —
the pulse strikes.

The bow snaps fire from the strings,
and the body remembers
what the mind tries to forget.

Heels hit the boards,
hard,
like hooves on ancient earth.
Skirts flare—
red, black, gold—
bright as old-country saints,
wild as forbidden tongues.

This is no lament.
This is inheritance.

A feral prayer
thrown to any god who dares listen:

If grief is mine,
then watch me ignite it.
If sorrow lives in my marrow,
then let my marrow dance.

Breath tangles with breath.
Sweat shines.
Someone laughs through tears —
the old Magyar duality:
joy braided tight with ache.

And the fiddle—
that wicked, blessed thing,
weeps
and seduces
in the same heartbeat.

By the final chord,
you are half ancestors,
half flame,
entirely alive,
a soul choosing movement
over silence,
choosing fire
over fading.

This is Csárdás.
Not a dance.
A remembrance.
A rebirth.