Last night I returned to Konya
and re-entered Rumi's tomb,
parting the rose-thickets
at the zenith of their summer bloom,
passing through the curtain
spun from sunshimmer and celadon,
to stand beneath the jade dome
as my eyes adjusted to the gloom,
and then to screen the vision,
to reflect upon the inner shrine -
two trees, one silver as the moon,
the other tremulous in gold,
and spiralling among their branches
Rumi's mystic energies,
transcendental ritual subsuming all
that time makes old,
the spirit's choreography
releasing its host's earthly hold
until they whirl in unison,
becoming dervish-flute and bird,
a mantra for epiphany,
the cosmic, the sublime,
God's word…
Last night I returned to Konya.
I was not alone:
we spiralled in the same ecstatic
moment, the same dervish trance,
till I became the thornless rose
whose essence paradise bestows
for you, galactic troubadour,
a Rumi of the stars' romance…