The Whirling Dervish

The Whirling Dervish

When the whirling dervish whirls
Let him whirl and sing.
Yield, do not resist.
Close your eyes, let him sing.

Your waking eye blurs
and you hold fast but cannot cling.
That's the moment to let go; do not persist.
There is neither a wing, nor yet a swing.
And yet you are thrown into a wind -twirling flow.
A musk -toned darkness streaked by a light
with only a voice that silks over the night
whistles through the weeds bent low.
The dervish whirls; let him whirl.
His circles spiral and grow.
His dance is wild, his music slow
until it leaves no sign to follow.
It's a silent storm now.
Churned out of the vortex,
the drowned images float:
silhouettes of spires and domes.

The memories do not stay. They are never meant to stay;
they are meant to lead you on
on the wave of the dervish's song.
Let the dervish lead you on.

The dervish has dropped his wing.
The dervish will no longer sing.
He opened the landscape
for a moment that lasted long enough to cast
a spell that moved eternity,
a wave upon wave that rose and fell,
until the dervish left and you never knew when.