ای در میان جانم و جان از تو بی خبر
از تو جهان پر است و جهان از تو بی خبر
از تو خبر به نام و نشان است خلق را
وانگه همه به نام و نشان از تو بی خبر
جویندگان گوهر دریای صنع تو
در وادی یقین و گمان از تو بی خبر
كوته نكنم زدامنت دست - ور خود بزني به تيغ تيزم
بعد از تو ملاذ و ملجائي نيست - هم در تو گريزم از گريزم
Tags: poetry
Mystics are not themselves. They do not exist
in selves. They move as they are moved,
talk as words come, see with sight
that enters their eyes. I met a woman
once and asked her where love had led her.
Fool, there's no destination to arrive at.
Loved one and lover and love are infinite.
Tags: path sword-sentiments
I have no news
of my coming
or passing away--
the whole thing
happened quicker
than a breath;
ask no questions
of the moth.
Tags: zen impermanence mayfly-and-pilgrim
We are busy with the luxury of things.
Their number and multiple faces bring
To us confusion we call knowledge. Say:
God created the world, pinned night to day,
Made mountains to weigh it down, seas
To wash its face, living creatures with pleas
(The ancestors of prayers) seeking a place
In this mystery that floats in endless space.
God set the earth on the back of a bull,
The bull on a fish dancing on a spool
Of silver light so fine it is like air;
That in turn rests on nothing there
But nothing that nothing can share.
All things are but masks at God's beck and call,
They are symbols that instruct us that God is all.
...Rise up and play
Those liquid notes that steal men's hearts away.
Since love has spoken in your soul, reject
The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked;
As Jesus rode his donkey, ride on it;
Your stubborn Self must bear you and submit -
Then burn this Self and purify your soul;
Let Jesus' spotless spirit be your goal.
The ocean can be yours; why should you stop
Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew?
The secrets of the sun are yours, but you
Content yourself with motes trapped in beams.
Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law;
You will be drowned if you cannot decide
To turn away from her inconstant tide.
She seethes with love herself - that turbulence
Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence,
Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest,
What peace could you discover in her breast?
She lives for Him - yet you are satisfied
To her His invitation and to hide.
I'd rather die deceived by dreams than give
My heart to home and trade and never live.
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