How Supple Are These Dancers!
They Seem To Have No Bones.
One after another they come in line upon
the mighty wall, and each one bends backward to the knees of the one
who follows.
As I stood and looked at them for the first time, almost
I heard the twitter of flutes, the rustic wail of the African hautboy,
the monotonous boom of the derabukkeh, cries of a far-off gaiety such
as one often hears from the Nile by night. But these cries came down
the long avenues of the centuries; this gaiety was distant in the
vasty halls of the long-dead years. Never can I think of Luxor without
thinking of those happy dancers, without thinking of the life that
goes in the sun on dancing feet.
There are a few places in the world that one associates with
happiness, that one remembers always with a smile, a little thrill at
the heart that whispers "There joy is." Of these few places Luxor is
one - Luxor the home of sunshine, the suave abode of light, of warmth,
of the sweet days of gold and sheeny, golden sunsets, of silver,
shimmering nights through which the songs of the boatmen of the Nile
go floating to the courts and the tombs of Thebes. The roses bloom in
Luxor under the mighty palms. Always surely beneath the palms there
are the roses. And the lateen-sails come up the Nile, looking like
white-winged promises of future golden days.
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