A ghostly dancer

screams in agonized silence,

for no one hears him.

The multitude streams

from street to street,

sidewalk to sidewalk.

When they do not roll in private boxes,

they walk with blinders.

Tokyo? Manhattan?

They are as ants without a queen.

Each one plays a solo role,

forgetting Truth is an ensemble,

neither one nor many.

They are alone.

They do not welcome all of their guests.

They let their mirrors rust.

A man’s clear, pure bell

rings for deaf ears.

I am an oil fire, light

shrouded by thick smoke.

To clear the cloud,

I need a different fuel.

The moon that darkens the sun

is a door that keeps out deserving guests.

All guests are deserving.

Friends encircle him.

A red-robed dancer, springing.

His feet leave the ground.

Millions swirl

like the arms of a galaxy

around the Ka’ba.

All face the tall, black cube,

glowing white with reflected daylight.

They bow as many.

They bow as one.

Rumi says, God picks up the reed-flute world

and blows.

Each note is a need coming through one of us,

a passion, a longing pain.

The Meccan pilgrims sing their notes, and house

after house opens

for all guests to enter.

Their mirrors shine bright.

I am a sunrise ruby.

When my eclipse ends, I will be

a world made of redness

in the blinding red light.