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| Rumi |
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| First when I was apart from you, This world did not exist, Nor any other Second whatever I was looking for Was always you. Third, why did I ever learn to count to three? Fourth, my cornfield is burning! Fifth, this finger stands for Rabia, and this for someone else. Is there a difference? Are these words or tears? Is weeping speech? What shall I do, my love? So he speaks and everyone around Begins to cry with him, laughing crazily, Moaning in the spreading union Of lover and beloved. This is the true religion. All others Are thrown-away bandages beside it. This is the essence of slavery and mastery Dancing together. This is not-being. Neither words, nor any natural fact Can express this. I know these dancers. Day and night I sing their songs In this phenomenal cage. My soul, donīt try to answer now! Find a friend and hide. But what can stay hidden? Loveīs secret is always lifting its head Out from under the covers, "Here I am!" |
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