This another poem about ballet.
With all the might in my leg I gently thrust it forward. If I am not to gentle I will look disgraceful. I must look tasteful, therefore I move with haste.
My mind is blank, it is concentrating on every movement I do; with my face my bum, my legs, my knees, my neck, my shoulders, my elbows, my hands, my ankles, and my heel’s. Every position must be right. All of this accuracy does give one fright, but the sight of a ballerina with such height and might is graceful. I try again….