a dervish whirling
in a cloud of midnight blue
the tumble of resting sounds
that roll across the dunes
appearing as golden mountains
sold unto the eternal sea
the bells of ritual ring tight
they are clutched in vibrant hands
furiously dispersing elements of tone
to the hills and to the valleys
rising out of medieval forests
near the desert’s edge below
branches hang and shatter
burdened by the weight of shadow
and of sifted fallin snow
graceful words of promise
come from wooden mouths
that feed like so many moths
to inflame the kindred souls
walking from desolation
to the warming lake of salt
they float on time
to the ripple of pebbles tossed
embellishing the landscape
from edge to maddening edge
the shore now they regain
to bleed the milk of palm
quenching odious thirst
to mend the voice of reason
crossing to and from
far from distant highways
and the formless hedging rows
the dervish halting slowly
to falter amongst the piling robes
resting near the edge of safety
the white-hot charcoal glows
he has come for the song of promise
and to drink the tea of spirits
a wildly inward flow
now a call from the minaret resounding
the voice of prayer disintegrates
a rush of deep emotions
dip into the cavernous well
stirring up the images
the playful have to tell
and when bright morning comes
alone in sweet repair
it will heal the ones who danced there
or drifted listlessly in the air
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/21/12
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