Hymns for our heroes

They dance at the hour of worship of deities. Nodding their heads, spinning deftly, turning their wrists in anticipation of the feminine grace that will dawn on them in a few years time. Their mothers wait patiently in the wings, worrying about a possible mis-step, a loosened accessory, a melting brow decoration. They have adorned their little ones in flower wreaths, pronouncing their own victory as mothers. They have found the best possible opportunity for their child's newly learnt steps and cultural acclimatisation to be staged. It could be a political meeting, a birth anniversary of a dead nationalist, a call of mirth, outrage or sobriety. Men of letters, matters of statecraft take a break for the joy of these innocent feet. Having enriched themselves with potion of childhood and cultural sacreds, they resume talk of power and struggle. Strengthened by the blessing of dead poets.

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