In the long-since dwindled light of the day, in this strangely assembled town, it is perhaps not so strange to hear such sounds ringing through the open air. Not only that: the ground is dotted with cups sheltering flickering candlelight from the wind, like distant cousins to the flowers, in closer relation to the stars.

Moving between them is a veiled figure whose limbs show through back-lit fabric. Its feet and hands are bare save for the bracelets to which the candles lend a warm glow; in those same hands rest a cup each holding a bare flame. One second the figure is a mirage, a shadow, only to reappear as this or that candle see fit to illuminate.

Of course it is a show. It is an elaborate, painstakingly slow act with only one outward purpose: to attract the eye like a flower the bee. Bagoas' limbs move with a fluidity that seems effortless but is anything but. The slow pace alone would require such precision as to shame most contemporary dancers, and the candles add another dimension.

Such is his talent, that he guides the eye like a lamb where he wants it, and all the while the man watching thinks himself his own shepherd. Here the flickering hint of a dimple, here the curve of a bared hip and the glint of his chiming belt, here the rolling of his lower belly.

And so the dance continues. Light, and dark. Lamb and shepherd and wolf, perhaps.