Thursday, January 14, 2010
Speech is born out of longing,
True description from the real taste.
The one who tastes, knows;
the one who explains, lies.
How can you describe the true form of Something
In whose presence you are blotted out?
And in whose being you still exist?
And who lives as a sign for your journey?
My heart tells me it is distressed with Him,
but I can only laugh at such pretended injuries.
Be fair, You who are the Glory of the just.
You, Soul, free of "we" and "I,"
subtle spirit within each man and woman.
When a man and a woman become one,
that "one" is You.
And when that one is obliterated, there You are.
Where is this "we" and this "I"?
By the side of the Beloved.
You made this "we" and this "I"
in order that you might play
this game of courtship with Yourself,
that all "you's" and "I's" might become one soul
and finally drown in the Beloved.
All this is true. Come!
You who are the Creative Word: Be
You, so far beyond description.
Is it possible for the bodily eyes to see You?
Can thought comprehend Your laughter or grief?
Tell me now, can it possibly see You at all?
Such a heart has only borrowed things to live with.
The garden of love is green without limit
and yields many fruits other than sorrow or joy.
Love is beyond either condition:
without spring, without autumn, it is always fresh.
Rumi - Mathnawi I, 1779-1794 - The Rumi Collection - Kabir Helminski