The Dance Of The Fakir Poem by Sumita Jetley

In a town where the sun meets the sky,
Lived a fakir, with a twinkle in his eye.
Not in silence did his devotion lie,
But in a dance, under the open sky.

Mullah Farid, stern and high,
Questioned the fakir, asking him why.
'Why do you dance, reaching for the sky?
Is this a prayer, or just a mere try? '

The fakir smiled, no hint of a sigh,
'My dance is my prayer, the reason I comply.
With every twirl, I touch the sky,
Feeling the Divine, as time passes by.'

'Prove it, ' said the Mullah, 'or say goodbye,
Show us a sign, from the heavens up high.'
The fakir danced, and clouds drew nigh,
Raindrops fell, as if the sky could cry.

Humbled, the Mullah let out a sigh,
'Your dance is a prayer, I can't deny.'
The fakir spoke, his voice so wry,
'Many are the paths, to the One up high.'

So in the town, under the moon's eye,
The tale spread of the fakir, who could touch the sky.
A dance, a prayer, a heavenly tie,
A reminder that faith has more than one way to comply.