The earth, on which everything grows, is in fact a huge grave. The people on it, with different dance music, step on different dance steps, put on different dance postures, and dance in different ways.
A gentleman in a tuxedo puts his arm around a lady in a long, floor-length dress and dances an elegant waltz.
The pony-tailed, chest-hair-exposed playboy dances the samba with a sultry, sexy girl in a symbolic ballgown.
Cowboys with riding boots and pistols and village girls in tartan shirts and jeans danced the cowboy dance.
Hip-hop kids in slouchy softball hats and fat-as-a-bag pants twirled across the floor.
Old men and women with chicken-skinned hair do a slow three-step dance at a slow pace.
Naked natives carry spears and dance around a bonfire as an ancestor offering.
This never-ending dance relay race goes on day and night. The physically weak, the old and the weak have fallen, the poor tired of the jaded left the field, the champion runner-up third place to get trophies, medals and flowers, the end of the song is also the end of the curtain and down.
They fishtailed towards the only exit.
The sign at the exit reads in two big words:
Grave.