poems of Rumi

estoy deleitando la cultura persa: leyendo una colección de poemas de Rumi (Rumi, the Book of Love by Coleman Barks) y escuchando a Lily Afshar. aquí algunos de los poemas de Rumi que han tocado mi alma. ohhhhhhh tanta belleza! Gracias por llenar mi espíritu AHORA. Que lo disfruten!

The Road Home
An aunt hurries along a threshing floor
with its wheat grain, moving between huge stacks
of wheat, not knowing the abundance
all around. It thinks its one grain
is all there is to love.

So we choose a tiny seed to be devoted to.
This body, one path or one teacher.
Look wider and farther.

The essence of every human being can see,
and what that essence-eye takes in,
the being becomes. Saturn. Solomon!

The ocean pours through a jar,
and you might say it swims inside
the fish! This mystery gives peace to
your longing and makes the road home home.

When love itself comes to kiss you,
don't hold back! When the king goes hunting,
the forest smiles. Now the king has become
the place and all the prayers, prey

bystander, bow, arrow, hand and release.
How does that feel? Last night's dream

enters these open eyes. We sometimes make
spiderwebs of smoke and saliva, fragile

though-packets. Leave thinking to the one
who gave intelligence. Stop weaving,

and watch how the pattern improves.

Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.

Your hands opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stetched open,
you would be paralyzed.

Your deepest presence is in every small
contracting and expanding,

the two as beatifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.

How do they learn that?
They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.

I am a glass of wine
I am a glass of wine with dark sediment
I pour it all in the river.

Loves says to me: "Good, but you don't see
your own beauty. I am the wind

that mixes in your fire, who stirs
and brightens, then makes you gutter out"

Who says word with my mouth?
Who look out with my eyes? What is
the soul? I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip on an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.


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