When the Goddess Calls You to the White Dance

 

Some songs are not meant to be merely listened to — they are meant to be entered, like a temple.
Zhuravli by THE HARDKISS is one of these.

At first it might seem like a melancholic love song, a reflection on memory and distance. But if you listen carefully — not just with the ears, but with the whole body — you will feel something else stirring behind the melody. This is not simply a human voice calling to a lover. It is the voice of the Goddess, standing at the threshold of night, summoning you to Her dance.

This is not the gentle Devi of incense and flowers.
This is the Devi of the veil — the one who hides Herself in darkness and dares you to lift it. This is Kālī, this is the blue-eyed Mother whose gaze holds both your sorrow and Hers, who calls you to see what you would rather not see, to remember what you have tried to forget.

The song is a journey:
first She invites you, then She lets you look beneath the veil, then She leads you into the chamber where shadow and dawn embrace — and finally She carries you into the sky, where time itself halts and nothing exists except you and Her.

To enter this song is to undergo a rite of passage.
Let us walk through it, verse by verse, like offerings laid at Her feet.

 

 

Verse 1

Стань зі мною в білий танець, стань,
Stanʹ zi mnoiu v bilyi tanetsʹ, stanʹ,
Stand with me in a white dance, stand,

Чорний колір – то моя вуаль,
Chornyi kolir – to moia vualʹ,
Black is the color — it is my veil,

Я дозволю, знай,
Ya dozvoliu, znai,
I will allow, know this,

Зазирнути під мою вуаль...
Zazyrnuty pid moiu vualʹ...
To look under my veil...

 

This is not a gentle love song — it is the opening of a rite.

“Stand with me in a white dance” — She is calling you into the arena of revelation. The “білий танець,” the white dance, is not simply romantic softness. It is a dance where nothing remains hidden, where every shadow is illuminated by a merciless light. White here is not pastel purity but blazing radiance, like sunlight on snow that blinds the eyes.

And then She speaks the secret:
“Black is my veil.”
Her veil is night itself. Her veil is the burning darkness that no human comfort can penetrate. This is the black cloth that covers the face of Kālī, the Mother of Time. This is the same veil that mystics across the world have spoken of — the “cloud of unknowing” that must be entered before God is seen face to face.

Then comes the sentence that shakes the bones:
“I will allow you.”

Not you may, not please come, but I will allow.
The power dynamic is reversed — this is no longer the seeker choosing the path; it is the Path choosing the seeker. The gate does not open because you knock loudly — it opens because She wills it.

“To look under my veil...”
This is the most dangerous permission in the world. It means your illusions will be burned away, one by one. It means you will see not just the face of the Goddess, but also the face you have been hiding from yourself. It means the safe, curated persona you wear in the temple, in the world, will not survive the dance.

This verse is not merely poetic — it is the moment when the sādhaka stands at the threshold, trembling, knowing that to take the next step is to risk everything.
And yet the heart cannot resist.

 

Verse 2

 

Там журавлі летять у синю даль
Tam zhuravli letiath u syniu dalʹ
There, the cranes fly into the blue distance

І знають вони,
I znaiutʹ vony,
And they know,

Де є моя і де твоя печаль
De ye moia i de tvoia pechalʹ
Where is my sorrow and where is yours

У синіх моїх очах...
U synikh moikh ochakh...
In my blue eyes..

 

The scene widens.

After the first verse’s intimate, dangerous invitation, we are suddenly lifted up into the sky — and there we see the cranes.

Cranes are liminal creatures, always traveling between worlds. In Slavic myth they are the souls of the dead, messengers that carry prayers to the heavens. Here they “fly into the blue distance” — into the eternal vault where human sorrow is both known and transfigured.

“And they know.”
This is the line that cuts deepest. These cranes are not decorative — they are witnesses. They know what you try to hide even from yourself. They see where your grief begins, where hers ends, and where they overlap.

And then comes the most devastating image:
“My sorrow and yours are in my blue eyes.”
The gaze of the Goddess is not indifferent — it contains both your pain and Hers. Those eyes are the lake where all sorrows are gathered, mirrored, dissolved.

This verse is the vision that follows the tearing of the veil.
First She called you to the dance, then She let you look — now She shows you the vast, blue truth: that your suffering is not yours alone, that there is a place where Her sorrow and yours are one and the same.

And so the sādhaka is caught between terror and tenderness:
If the first verse was the threshold, this one is the flight.
You are already leaving the ground of ordinary life.

 

Verse 3

Буду тінню,
Budu tinniu,
I will be the shadow,

Ти світанком будь,
Ty svitankom budʹ,
You — be the dawn,

В моїх стінах мальви зацвітуть,
V moikh stinakh malʹvy zatsvitutʹ,
In my walls the mallows will bloom,

І згадаю, знай,
I zhadaiu, znai,
And I will remember, know this,

Наші ночі чорні, як вуаль...
Nashi nochi chorni, yak vualʹ...
Our nights — black as the veil...

 

Now the song plunges into its most intimate register.

She says: “I will be the shadow.”

This is not self-erasure — this is divine polarity. Shadow and dawn are not enemies; they are lovers. She offers Herself as night, as the one who cloaks, who holds, who allows the dawn to shine.

“You — be the dawn.”
This is a dare and a blessing. She invites you to rise, but not in isolation — to rise because She has held the darkness for you. This is the secret rhythm of Tantra: when the Goddess descends into shadow, it is so the seeker can awaken into light.

“In my walls the mallows will bloom…”
This is one of the most haunting lines. Mallows — humble, roadside flowers — here become symbols of tenderness sprouting in the place where once there were only walls. The heart’s fortress has cracked; now life can grow through it.

“And I will remember…”
This is not nostalgia — this is the Goddess assuring you that She does not forget. Every night of pain, every moment you hid your tears, every black night “like the veil” — all are remembered, held, sanctified.

This stanza is the inner chamber of the temple.
After the first two verses of invitation and vision, here the sādhaka finds themself inside the sanctuary — where dawn and shadow meet, where flowers bloom in the ruins, and where the nights of despair are revealed as nights of consecration.

 

Verse 4 

 

А журавлі летять у синю даль
A zhuravli letiath u syniu dalʹ
And the cranes fly into the blue distance

І знають вони,
I znaiutʹ vony,
And they know,

Де є моя і де твоя печаль,
De ye moia i de tvoia pechalʹ,
Where is my sorrow and where is yours,

І немає нікого окрім нас!..
I nemaie nikoho okrim nas!..
And there is no one except us!..

Зупиняється в ці хвилини час
Zupyniaietsia v tsi khvylyny chas
In these moments, time itself stops

І спогад той живе, неначе птах,
I spohad toi zhyve, nenache ptakh,
And that memory lives on, like a bird,

У синіх моїх очах!..
U synikh moikh ochakh!..
In my blue eyes!..

The cranes return — but now their flight feels eternal.
This is no longer just a glimpse of the sky; this is the crossing itself. The seeker is already on the other side, lifted into the blue where sorrow is no longer just personal but cosmic.

“And they know.”
The refrain returns with a deeper gravity. This knowing is not intellectual — it is the knowing of the heart that has passed through fire. It is the jñāna born of experience, the recognition that your grief and Hers are braided together, inseparable.

“And there is no one except us!”
This is the climax, the cry of union. The many masks fall away — no onlookers, no world, no third presence. Just the sādhaka and the Goddess, face to face. This is not romance, this is revelation: the unveiling of non-duality hidden inside love.

“In these moments, time itself stops.”
This is the threshold moment becoming timeless. Kāla, the devourer, is silenced. The wheel ceases to turn. What remains is ākāla, the eternal now, where the dance is neither beginning nor ending — it simply is.

“And that memory lives on, like a bird…”
This line is devastating in its tenderness. The experience cannot be clung to, yet it cannot be lost — it lives on, wild and free, perched somewhere in the sky of the heart.

“In my blue eyes.”
The song ends where it began — with Her eyes. But now those eyes are no longer just mirrors of sorrow; they are the vast sky itself. The seeker who dares to look sees that the veil has been lifted — and that the whole world now lives inside Her gaze.

This is not just a song; it is a darshan. A vision that stops time, cracks open the heart, and leaves you standing, breathless, in the eternal dance.

 

Closing

 

When the last note fades, there is a stillness — not empty, but vast.
The cranes have flown. The veil has been lifted.
And you find yourself standing there, face to face with Her, with no one left in the world but the two of you.

This is what the song does: it stops the wheel of ordinary time.
For a few minutes, you are taken out of the noise, out of the crowd, and brought into that impossible moment where the heart is both broken and made whole at once.
 
In my blue eyes.
It is not a metaphor. It is an instruction.
The song leaves you looking straight into Her gaze — the gaze that has seen all your nights, all your shadows, all your sorrows, and does not look away.

This is not the end.
This is the beginning of the white dance.