Twirling and swirling and whirling
A flash of red whisps through the crowd of dull and funeral-like decor.
She spins aimlessly, messily through the practised, and utterly strictly ballroom dancers -
Their faces a monotany of emotionless control,
Their poise impeccable,
And only the tell-tale bead of sweat and counting under their breathe betrays the otherwise flawless act.

Again a flash of red, and the floor is filled with life...besides the robotic dancers (and I don't mean they were doing the robot) who were already in the midst of a rumba.
Her closed eyes lead her to and fro through the dancing dead,
Her wandering hands grasp at the music flowing through the air,
Although there is not a learned step to her unprepared jive and jiggle;
her passion and innocence are enough to let any shy observer know who the real master of salsa really was.
Her carelessness was enough to inspire anyone to dance as she did
-and to break the solid, conservative mentality of society
- and to break away from conforming to the norm,
And to be yourself, no matter what anyone really thinks,
Since even though everyone may judge you, there'll always be someone who thinks you bring life to the party.