Turning Prayer in Invisible Circles

Dust rises gently as the circle forms,

clothing the air in a pale, trembling glow.

Robes sweep the ground in widening arcs,

gathering breath from every direction.

A single tone slips into the wind,

thin as smoke, soft as worn silk.

The world tilts with each rotation,

loosening the weight of ordinary time.

Steps crossing steps,

paths weaving paths.

Turning prayer in invisible circles,

moving where the quiet wind decides.

Hands rise, then fall like drifting feathers,

guided by something the eyes can’t find.

The horizon bends into a silver ring,

closing and opening with every turn.

Shadows roll into spiraling threads,

unraveling the limits of the ground.

A faint chant hovers—laa… hum…—

not a call, not a plea,

just the breath of a motion

that never stops learning its shape.

Turning prayer in invisible circles,

moving where the quiet wind decides.

Hands rise, then fall like drifting feathers,

guided by something the eyes can’t find.

And when the final step dissolves,

the air keeps turning on its own,

completing the circle

long after the dancers sleep.