Whirling Dervishes
We dance like children
in poverty, happy and ne’er longing for more.
The force is continued in the small
of your hand:
life is a distant star,
a dream.
Nonchalantly, I wait for time
to pass,
but it is not soon enough.
Blind fools dance.
I cannot change
these lives of fantasy.
The cold river warms
until it changes hue.
Face the secret room
with no walls,
and yellowing wallpaper.
No actual existence.
No transcendence.
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