  She dances on the dimly lit big oak table with two scimitars, gleaming catching the light, the grace of her arms proves Shiva the destroyer is not wicked or unkind. Like the hawk talons snatching the rabbit, searching and penetrating the heart until the screaming and kicking stops, food for downy chicks. Her skirts are long and full, leaving the strength of her legs to the imagination. The big room is hung with tapestries and art, comfortable seats, a mountain of delectable edibles and vats of wine and home-brewed beer. The band's music is seismic, twenty musicians, a horn, ten guitars, an upright bass, harmonicas and kazoos, a flute, two fiddles, a big drum, castanets, banjo and bongos, sometimes Greek or Spanish or Brazillian music, sometimes roaring 20s, sometimes solid sweet trance-for-dance music and the dancers join in with clapping and singing and stomping.
The seeds of discontent are sown around the crowded room with each smile, each nod, each sip of red sweetness in vino veritas , and the clarity of vision reaches all. The more people smoke herb the more Babylon fall, said the prophet. Lighters and candles flicker and outside a bonfire flickers and voices and laughter flicker and then roll like waves. There is a dream here, buried and shunned by the thickening mass, a dream of freedom and equality for those who believe in it. Dreamers dream; there is enough for everyone. Implement your hopes and carry an idea of peace in your hip pocket and when the mass hardens, pops and sighs, emerge and inherit the life dreamt.
I see smiling eyes in the half light of a grinning moon, eyes that know secrets, eyes kind and also cunning. At the horizon the crescent of Venus descends and will soon be gone into the dark misty shape of trees. High above in the clear indigo speckled with silver hangs blue Vega and dark red Mars, Draco slithering between. The cold crisp grass holds the imprint of our bodies, small white daisies and clover crushed momentarily beneath the flesh, hearts pounding, our own here and now freedom.
The music and laughter drifting, the scent of baking pies and barbeque and smoke, the proof of joy stretching to the contour of the forested hillside and declared in the shadow silhouettes that dance around the driftwood bonfire that burns green like energy. Tomorrow dawns clear and golden. 
