The Damascene Dancer
Oliver Duillier – Syria

I saw her under the flicker

of a damaged street lamp.

The music of ancient Damascus

dissolved in the busy street

but she remained undisturbed;

the beat resonated in her bones.

She swayed like the branches

of the white jasmine trees,

moved sporadically and erratically

by the unpredictable wind.

The city surrounding her

flowed; a river around a rock,

unmoved by the untamed beauty

marring its urban rhythm.

White scarf in hand

and ebony hair swinging wildly,

she danced with the dervishes of old,

spinning, spinning, spinning,

until she could spin no more.

"I love you," I told her

and begged her to marry me,

for her dance had intoxicated me

as surely as the strongest wine of Bekaa.

"I love you," she said,

"but we cannot marry

for you are not Muslim."

"I will convert," I replied

and tore the cross from my neck

to prove my conviction.

"What sort of love is that,"

she asked me,

"that you would reject God for?"

Her brown eyes shone

brightly as the clouds parted

and the stars perforating the black sky

smiled down acceptingly.

"What sort of God is that,"

I asked her,

"that you would reject love for?"