I am that spectator,

Who stands to the left, quiet,

Peering over heads,

Straining eyes and ears,

To fulfil my fancy,

 

Smothered by fumes,

Coughs and sneezes,

Arms outstretched,

Heads bent for scratching, itchy knees,

Folded hands on restless laps,

Shoulders twitching, craned necks,

Soaked in perfume,

 

I am that spectator,

Who is fooled by the red lacquered panels,

Chinese style, five in a row,

Between Grecian gold pillars,

Front lit and gaudy,

Not asking the question

“What are they hiding?”

 

I am that spectator,

Whose eyes prick with tears,

As the baton falls slowly,

And hands clap in rapture,

And hearts swell in earnest,

And lungs gush for breathing,

Long steady and silent,

 

Where legs rise to exit,

Before the last curtain,

I am that spectator,

Who frowns in disdain,

But smiling inside,

With ears full of glory,

 

I am that one spectator,

Who never stops appreciating.

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