In
relative obscurity,
they work their black magic,
their audience the eyes of tigers,
Pavlov the solitary prophet
of their strange, exacting faith.
With cubes of sugar,
they harness the fury of beasts.
Accustomed to the breath
of predators, they execute
their marvelous acts
behind the scenes, satisfied
with their lot as gods
to the men in pretty tights.
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