The Last Turn Of The Dervish Poem by Sumita Jetley

There is a moment, just before the world stands still,
When the hands slip free, against the will.
When love, like sand, runs through the seams,
And echoes fade from broken dreams.

Aarav feared the hush of goodbyes,
The weight of silence, the severed ties.
Each time he clutched, he lost the thread,
The warmth of hands, the words unsaid.

One night, beneath the neon glow,
He watched a man begin to flow.
A dancer spun, arms open wide,
Feet grazing air, a turning tide.

"What is he doing? " Aarav sighed,
As past goodbyes still burned inside.
A woman near him took a sip,
A knowing smile upon her lips.

"He's surrendering, " she softly said,
"To love, to loss, to what lies ahead.
He turns not to hold, not to confine,
But to release, to realign."

The dancer swayed, the world stood hushed,
His body moved, yet nothing rushed.
Each step, an offering to the night,
Each turn, a whisper taking flight.

Then—a shot, a scream, a fractured sound,
Chaos burst, and all unwound.
The dancer faltered, breath grew thin,
His final turn drew to an end.

Aarav knelt in crimson light,
His trembling hands held life so slight.
The dancer smiled, his fingers traced,
A final arc, a fleeting grace.

"The last turn, " he barely spoke,
A final breath, the tether broke.
Yet in his eyes, there was no fear,
Just stillness drawing ever near.

And so, Aarav, lost in fate,
Rose and turned to contemplate.
He stretched his arms, let longing wane,
And spun into the night's refrain.

Once, twice—the city blurred,
His heartbeat echoed in the stirred.
He knew at last what truth remained:
Separation ends, but love sustains.