A dervish lover was told to turn
toward his own face,
and he did, saying, Lord, lord, for years
with no answer, no message back,
yet he was always there turning in silence,
with no music supporting him,
no tambourine rhythm.
A pigeon knows which roof to haunt.
Even if you drive it off,
it will circle and stay near.
This is the critical moment
when a swell of ocean turns
its edge to foam.
Every dervish has two mouths,
a crafted reed opening
and the lips of the flute player.
Lord, don't speak from there.
— Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
