Déjà vu

Sailing through  long forgotten passages,
to familiar sways, of so many faces.
Danced into a “rhumba” crowd, with drums,
and castagnettes
and an ocasional turkish flute.
Ripples of crimson, and not
a chord on edge.
All flowing out of one
and back along the tides
with ancient rules
and not at all like black and white…
to leave you breathless; wondering
how the tread, now left your hands, had come to be
and where it ends
or
how it all began.