Like ancient warriors at war they turn upon the stage,
swirling and twirling through the light
as darkness swells out to surround them.
Here troubadour's birth their songs,
and here chants the lonesome hunter
emerging from raven's shadow.
Here at the forest's edge, where nature
mirrors the mind.
Here life is born from nothingness
and beauty is born from grace,
while compassion takes root in the song.
It is here where harmony folds time,
into the singers heart,
dismissing all discord.
While dancers pirouette in the palm of eternity's
hand, both sorrow and splendor their partner.
Sublimely they engage existence,
fencing with fate,
waltzing to and fro between winds of the
ethereal, touching the stars,
directing their destiny.
At other times they are very much like
Tristram and Isolde or
Abelard and Heloise.
lovers risking all,
giving and receiving,
lost in one another's healing arms.
Or like artists blending colors across canvas,
caressing and creating,
each partner helping to lead the other inward
into the warm full heart of God,
home of many colors,
where thoughts clearly sung give life to the soul.
Tenderly, fervently, passionately, wrapped in
patient joy they become joined together in their
exploration of spirit, sound, and sensuality,
here they are blessed,
here they are at one with themselves.
There is laughter here and
a prayer to speak of shared with tears.
Where wheels turning inward
induce one to marvel,
embracing the divine,
and touching the sacred.
Willfully they move as one possessed by the music,
And who can truly tell whether it is the
movement of the music
that fashions each soul,
or the movement of a single soul
who fashions the music.
R. P. Starbuck
