Starlings

Whirling and swirling, they wheel and dart;

Effortlessly one;

Dancing to the beat of an unheard song;

Surging to the pull of an unseen moon;

Lost in the rapture of the madding throng:

Mevlevi on the wing.

Oh;

To fly;

To soar;

To swoop;

To dive;

To rise again in heady dance.

Alas, my soul is weighted down; shackled here below;

Wings too weak to take the load;

Heart too frail to try - and fail.

And if I flew, what would I be?

A pebble in the rushing tide;

Chaff, winnowed in the shifting gyre;

Swept aloft, but only for a while;

Kept there by their grace alone;

Deaf to the rhythms of the aerial host;

Buffeting, buffeted, tossed and thrown;

Bound to fall when the swell subsides.

My place is here, I stand apart:

the watcher on the rock.

Still I linger;

Still they whirl;

Shadows on the darkening sky;

Living smoke, drifting out of sight;

Fading from view as night descends.