"It's not a spectator sport!"

Come!

Enter this circular hall,
head bowed, hand up in a turn.

Listen.

As breath touches the drum,
and prayer plucks soft the strings.
Listen.

The Beloved moves about the room, pleading:

Drop that untouchable hope of becoming!

Rip the grasp of generations
from Clenched fists,
and expire.

Our feet are now one beat,
moving.
As the tight breath of self
melts to a pool, in the circle of sound.

Sweet kindness,
sweeter sorrow.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh ... hh .. hhhhh

Look back,
Across the veil, nothing ever kept us
from you.