As a little boy, I was read "1001 Arabian Nights" time and again. The girls that danced in silk for the sultans were always a fascination. They were always described as swaying exotic goddesses dancing in silk that played like tendrils of smoke upon their lithe figures. Bejeweled, they glittered in the torch-light like diamonds offering brilliant flashes under the sun. The music slithered up your body like a snake and teased your ears as if the serpent was lovingly flicking your desire to join the dance.
Now I have the honor and pleasure of knowing and writing for one such lady. She is not Scheherezade and dances not upon sand for Sultans or tell stories to please. My dancer is a princess that dances within the majesty of marble halls for Kings and Queens and tells stories with her fluid body. She alone is the treasure of the Arabian Desert.
She does not dance with empty eyes like a puppet without strings. Each movement is full of passion and emotion is the night in which she elegantly sways. Each sway turns dreams to ash and set reality ablaze with the fires of truth. Sands from forgotten times fill the hourglass with virtuous thoughts and a love lost to the ages as the granules of modern torment slip through the cracks in space.
I stand under the moon and slowly close my eyes, shutting out the visions of the day. In my mind, the stories of the past whirl in the wind like a dervish, dancing with the realities of today. All at once they become one and lift me within their shimmering eddy on leave me floating on midnight clouds of silvery light, surrounded by twinkling pin-pricks of starlight. Whispers of "I love you," carried in the wind, now caress my ears where the flickering tongues of snakes once teased. I feel her reaching for my soul. There! There! There in my heart! I see her under a evening sun! Smiling, waiting, wanting me to be within the dancer’s embrace and melt with her into the legendary melodies lost with a lamp not yet rubbed.
© Dec 4, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic
NOTE: photo courtesy of PL