Strophe
O silent art, where hands weave tales in air,
No voice to guide, yet stories leap to sight.
A flailing arm, a leap, a comic stare,
The room erupts in guesses, wild and bright.
Is it a bird? A king? A fleeting mime?
Each gesture carves a riddle, swift and sly,
The player’s craft a spark in pantomime,
Igniting laughter ‘neath the evening sky.
Antistrophe
The circle hums, each face alight with glee,
As clues unfold in twists of limb and grin.
A charade’s spell binds friends in unity,
No word is spoke, yet all the heart’s within.
The clock ticks soft, but time forgets its pace,
While players dance their hints with fervent zeal.
From book to beast, each act a bold embrace,
The silent stage where joy becomes the real.
Epode
O game of wit, where silence speaks so loud,
You draw us close, a tribe of playful souls.
Each guess a thread, each laugh a woven shroud,
To bind the night in memory’s gentle folds.
No prize but mirth, no goal but shared delight,
Charades, you reign in gesture’s fleeting flight.