Whirling Dervish

Over the years, my heart arrived to a crossroad of happening, birthing this diary, a mystic diary as I have lived, walked, whirled on earth.

Everytime I began writing few pages and then asked myself; who is writing?

These days, no answer comes.

Seems the small self is gone and the true one has no desire, who wants to write?

As I was pondering in the above dialogue, I noticed birds are singing outside the window, I suddenly detect a new tune, a new bird.

It was’t sparrows, or crows. It wasn’t next door neighbor’s rooster and hens.

My attention stayed with her, space and emptiness between sound and silence. She was an immaculate manifestation of my soul’s voice.

Tears began falling, an ache in my throat, a touch grace, and again another spin of heart, whirling around the beloved.

It was strange as the other birds were still carrying their own rythm, but my heart was so tune in to this new bird, and her song.

Others were disappeared.

I witnessed as recognized, the oneness.

The unmoved self, the heart compiled to dance around the timeless one,

A song from beyond.

Who knows, who is the writer,

what will be written.

it is all written by the Hand of One,

making beauty between syllables of one symphony.

So be it. Let life flows in ink and blood of my heart, let me burn into ashes and Truth shall raise.

A story, a walk, a girl with no inheritance on earth,and promise of the timeless presence as her dowry.

I have her face, her body but for sure I am no one. No name, no gender, no mind or body, just a heart open to all that comes and goes,

a devotee to Truth. Silence hold all my songs.

What more one can say, a song with no beginning or end. Who are the audience?

Who is listening? Who cares?

A joy of flow in timelessness of Present, that is my home.

God is my home and truth is my freedom.

I shall write the book with fire of my heart, on air, water and earth.

May my pen stays spontaneous,

May my words reflect no one and nothing,

And yet stir all hearts to seek Truth.

May the light of my eyes and stillness of trees in front of the glass window,

Fall in magic of love with each other, with all

and birth the mystic diary, a whirling dervish’s treasure map into True Self.

May 25, Istanbul, Turkey

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