This that is tormented and very tired,
tortured with restraints like a madman,
this heart.
Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah…it makes absolutely no difference what people think of you.
RumiMots clés inspirational
In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.
RumiMots clés love
Remember. The way you make love is the way God will be with you.
RumiMots clés love
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Words are a pretext. It is the inner bond that draws one person to another, not words.
RumiMots clés words soul language rumi turkey pretext inadequacy-of-words bond celaleddin inner mawlana mawlana-jalal-al-din-rumi mevlana structuralism türkiye
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there.
RumiGod has allowed some magical reversal to occur,
so that you see the scorpion pit
as an object of desire,
and all the beautiful expanse around it
as dangerous and swarming with snakes.
Mots clés craftsmanship-and-emptiness
What the sayer of praise is really praising is himself,
by saying implicitly,
My eyes are clear."
Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing
himself, saying implicitly, "I can't see very well
with my eyes so inflamed.
Mots clés muhammad-and-the-huge-eater
A Thirsty Fish
I don't get tired of you. Don't grow weary
of being compassionate toward me!
All this thirst equipment
must surely be tired of me,
the waterjar, the water carrier.
I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it's thirsty for!
Show me the way to the ocean!
Break these half-measures,
these small containers.
All this fantasy
and grief.
Let my house be drowned in the wave
that rose last night in the courtyard
hidden in the center of my chest.
Joseph fell like the moon into my well.
The harvest I expected was washed away.
But no matter.
A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.
I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.
The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.
This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence comes over me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.
As for us, He has appointed the job of permanent unemployment.
If he wanted us to work, after all,
He would not have created this wine.
With a skinfull of this, Sir,
would you rush out to commit economics?
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