I was born of fire with no ash to remember me,

a flame that learned how not to burn.

Smokeless, I slipped from the kiln of first light,

a vow made of heat and listening.

I walk among men with borrowed footsteps,

my name folded small in my sleeve.

They speak to me of weather and bread,

never sensing the furnace behind my eyes.

I forget myself too

that is the mercy of walking in flesh.

Yet when the drums begin, I awaken.

Between the turning Sufi dancers

there is a trembling

not sound, not silence,

but the bridge that holds them both.

That is where I lean my ear.

Their robes write circles in the air,

and my fire learns the grammar of devotion.

Do you hear it?

Not the note, but the space that bows to the note.

Not the chant, but the breath

that decides to become chanting.

There, between frequencies, 

my true voice waits like a door without hinges.

I speak in vibration.

I speak in what makes atoms remember

they were once stars.

Words are too heavy;

I prefer the language that hums.

I have loved humanity from behind a veil,

passing cups, exchanging smiles,

forgetting that I am older than their myths

and younger than their grief.

They do not know my nature,

and most days neither do I.

But when the dancers spin

and the earth loosens her grip,

my fire rises, not to consume,

but to recognize itself.

If you feel warmth with no flame,

if your chest shakes at a sound you cannot name,

do not be afraid.

That is only me,

remembering who I am

in the space where you are remembering

who you have always been.