The chamber’s lights are low
but hearts are shining brightly:
sufis are dancing here in holy
unison, ecstatic.

It is a gathering of those who seek
the blessed Face–and here
sobriety is left behind for drunkenness
of a higher kind.

The Sheikh, their leader, stands amidst
the circle of disciples. He’s tall and bearded,
in brown robe and turban he directs them;
his eyes are those of one who’s burned with yearning.

And around him are the circle of his students–
hands entwined, the singers and those keeping
time by breathing heavily as one and swaying,
hearts aspiring out of time.

The singers’ voices animate
a poem of some ancient master,
more than music–it’s a map for those
who travel on this arduous Way.

The chamber’s lights are low
but hearts are shining brightly:
sufis are dancing here in holy
unison, ecstatic.

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