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Dance, when you are broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you are perfectly free.
Struck, the dancers hear the tambourine inside them,
as a wave turns the foam on its very top, begin.
Maybe you don't hear that tambourine,
all the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head that listen mostly to
lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to hear and see:
dance, music and a brilliant city inside the soul.— Rumi
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