Night was falling. A snowflake touched the dancer’s cheek. Once again the two of them sat weeping together in the quiet and the dark. And so they sat for what seemed a long, long time.
But as they sat crying on the cold stone pavement, as the snow began to fall in flurries around them, all at once, like the clear note of a silver trumpet out of the mournful gray sky, came a shout:
The Voice was like that of a great bell. Its sound was like the rising of the dawn. The dancer and her new friend looked up and gazed at one another in surprise. Suddenly their weeping was turned into laughter. Up they jumped, and together they began to dance with all their might.
Down dark alleys they danced as the poor and homeless watched them wordlessly. They danced along the narrow streets while those who walk the night stood staring in wonder. They danced with the dancing snowflakes and the fragile mist of their own warm breath as it hung in the frosty air. They danced past banks and shops, past theaters and concert halls, past courthouses and market places and office buildings, all standing bleak and empty in the silent winter’s night.
They danced all night long until the snow stopped falling, the clouds dispersed, and the early morning stars appeared.
They danced until, exhausted, they fell together to the ground and slept.
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