Storied Sounds: Rumi's Mathnawi + Poems & Nightscape | 8 Hr

A sleep story based on the famous Sufi text,

Rumi's Mathnawi and Diwan-i-Sham's Itabrizi.

The reed flute begins.

Somewhere far from your room,

Far from your bed,

Far from the bright hours of the day,

There is a sound,

A simple sound.

It is the voice of a reed flute,

Hollowed reed,

Breath passing through it.

A song that seems to come from emptiness,

But is really made from longing.

The reed flute says,

Without words,

I was cut from my reed bed.

I remember the place I belonged.

I remember the river wet roots.

I remember being one among many and not separate.

And now,

Even when the song is sweet,

It is still a complaint,

A remembering of separation,

A desire to return to the source,

A desire to be whole again.

A desire to be home again.

You might not call it a reed flute.

You might call it a sigh.

You might call it prayer.

You might call it the ache that comes when you are almost asleep,

When your guard is down.

And you suddenly feel how tender it is to be human.

And as you lie here,

Breathing in,

Breathing out,

You may notice something very gentle.

The reed flute is not outside you.

It is inside you.

Not as a thing you can point to,

More like a quiet music just under your thoughts.

So tonight,

We follow the reed flute.

To a place that does not need your effort.

A place that welcomes you even if you arrive tired.

A path made of soft night.

Imagine a wide landscape under a calm sky.

The stars are scattered like seeds.

The moon is modest.

Or maybe hidden behind a thin veil of cloud.

In this landscape,

There is a road.

A simple road of packed earth.

And on this road,

There is a traveler.

The traveler's cloak is plain.

The traveler's hands are empty.

The traveler's pace is unhurried.

And as the traveler walks,

The road itself seems to whisper,

All you are carrying that you do not need can be set down.

All you are gripping that hurts your hands can be released.

All you are repeating in your mind can be allowed to drift like a cloud.

The traveler nods,

As if recognizing an old friend.

And then,

The traveler comes to a small village at the edge of the road.

A village of lantern light.

A village of quiet doors.

A village that looks like it has been here a long time.

And will still be here long after any one traveler has passed through.

In the center of the village is a house.

A house that feels.

.

.

Kind.

The traveler steps inside.

And inside this house is a gathering.

People sit in a circle.

Some are old.

Some are young.

Some are weary.

Some are bright-eyed.

But all of them are listening.

Listening for what cannot be forced.

Listening for what cannot be bought.

Listening for what is already near.

The traveler sits among them.

And no one asks for credentials.

No one asks for achievements.

No one asks for an explanation.

It is enough that the traveler arrived.

And in the center of the circle,

Someone begins to tell a tale.

The elephant in the dark house.

Once,

The storyteller says,

An elephant was brought for exhibition.

But the elephant was kept in a dark house.

A house with no lamps.

A house where the eye could not do its usual job.

People went in,

One by one,

To discover what the elephant was.

And since they could not see,

They reached out with their hands.

One touched the trunk and said,

It is like a water pipe.

Another touched the ear and said,

It is like a fan.

Another touched the leg and said,

It is like a pillar.

Another touched the back and said,

It is like a throne.

And each person left the dark house certain,

Absolutely certain,

That their description was the truth.

And the storyteller pauses here,

Letting the circle feel the lesson without being struck by it.

Because the lesson is not an insult.

It is a mercy.

It says,

Of course you see only a part.

Of course you name the part you touched.

Of course you argue for it.

That is how the mind tries to make a lamp out of language.

But the elephant was always more than the part.

And the dark house was never meant to shame anyone.

It was meant to teach humility.

In the circle,

The traveler feels something loosen.

A tightness in the forehead.

A tightness behind the eyes.

Because so much suffering comes from insisting,

My part is the whole.

My touch is the truth.

My fragment is the totality.

But tonight,

In this gentle house,

No one needs to win.

The storyteller says softly,

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to admit you are touching blindly.

And in the traveler's chest,

Something warm agrees,

The merchant and the parent.

The storyteller continues,

Once there was a merchant,

The storyteller says,

And the merchant had a parent.

Not just any parent.

A sweet-voiced companion.

A real talker.

A little bright consciousness perched near the mundane.

One day,

The merchant prepared for a journey.

A long trading journey.

And before leaving,

The merchant asked each servant,

Each member of the household,

Each companion creature,

What gift shall I bring you back?

The parent,

Too,

Asked for a gift.

But the parent's request was not a trinket,

Not a seed cake,

Not a shining bell.

The parent said in its own way,

When you go to India,

When you see the parrots there,

Tell them about me.

Tell them I live in a cage.

Tell them I long for the trees.

Tell them I remember the wind.

So the merchant went to India.

And there,

Amid markets and spices and bright cloth,

The merchant saw parrots.

Parrots living free among branches.

And the merchant delivered the parrot's message.

As soon as one parrot heard it,

That parrot trembled and fell and became still,

As if dead.

The merchant was horrified.

What have I done?

The merchant thought.

Why did I speak this message?

The merchant returned home,

Carrying gifts for everyone.

And finally,

The merchant came to the parrot.

The parrot asked,

What did you see?

What did you say?

What happened?

And the merchant told the story,

Told it with remorse,

With the ache of consequences.

And when the parrot heard what the Indian parrot had done,

The parrot in the cage trembled too.

Then it fell.

Then it became still,

As if dead.

The merchant cried out.

The merchant tore at grief.

The merchant lamented,

Calling the parrot a confidant,

A beloved companion.

But then,

The merchant opened the cage to take the parrot's body out.

And the parrot,

The dead parrot,

Suddenly leapt.

It fluttered and flew.

It rose into the air of freedom.

The merchant stood stunned.

And the parrot,

Now perched high,

Seemed to say,

That parrot in India taught me the way.

It did not die from sorrow.

It died on purpose,

To show me how to leave the cage.

Sometimes the way out is not force.

Sometimes the way out is surrender.

Sometimes you must become still in the place where you have been trapped,

So that the door you could not see finally appears.

In the circle,

The traveler breathes out slowly,

Because the traveler understands.

Not in the mind,

But in the bones.

There are cages made of iron,

And cages made of gold,

And cages made of habit,

And cages made of fear.

And sometimes,

The key is not in fighting the bars.

Sometimes the key is in letting the old frantic self grow quiet enough to hear a different instruction.

A quieter instruction.

A kinder instruction.

A still,

Quiet inner voice,

Perched,

Waiting to be heard.

A house where shame is not fed.

The traveler stays in the village for the night.

The storyteller offers tea.

The circle listens to the wind outside,

And someone adds another log to the fire.

And someone,

Another voice erupts,

Telling a brief,

Tender account.

A guest once found himself in a humiliation he could not hide.

And the prophet,

Out of mercy,

Opened the door for him at dawn,

And concealed himself,

So the guest would not be overcome by shame.

In that moment,

The traveler feels the story doing something subtle,

Without excusing wrongdoing,

Nor pretending consequences do not exist.

But refusing to add cruelty to what is already painful.

Refusing to make shame a second punishment.

Refusing to crush a person who has already bowed.

The traveler thinks,

How many nights have I punished myself twice?

Once for what happened,

And again for being human enough to have it happen.

The fire crackles.

The light dances dimly in the room.

And the traveler,

Without making a big vow,

Without making a dramatic promise,

Allows a new possibility.

Tonight,

I will not add the second punishment.

Tonight,

I will let mercy be mercy.

Borrowed light.

Real light.

Later the traveler steps outside.

The sky has cleared more.

The moon appears,

Bright but gentle.

And there is a cloud,

Thin,

Wiping its way across the moon.

The traveler watches the cloud take on the moon's brightness.

And the traveler remembers a teaching.

The cloud can look like the moon,

But its light is borrowed.

The moon's light is not owned by the cloud.

The traveler stands quietly,

Realizing,

Some things in me are borrowed light,

Borrowed confidence,

Borrowed identity,

Borrowed roles,

Borrowed masks that shine only because something deeper is behind them.

And that is not bad.

It is not a sin.

It is simply a stage.

But the traveler senses the invitation.

Do not cling to the cloud.

Do not confuse the veil for the source.

Let borrowed light be a guide,

Not a limitation.

And then,

Without strain,

The traveler feels gratitude for the moon,

A teacher of that which is reflected without,

From a greater sense of purpose carried silently within.

The pear tree of illusion.

Before returning inside,

The traveler walks along the village edge.

There is a pear tree there,

Dark branches,

Bare in the night,

Silhouetted against the stars.

And the traveler recalls another story told in the sacred text,

A story where a person's perception is distorted and the distortion is blamed on the pear tree itself.

The teaching turns,

Softly,

Into this.

Illusion is not only out there.

Illusion can be the angle of our own seeing,

The tilt of the ego,

The dizziness of self-importance.

Come down,

The lesson seems to say,

From the pear tree of self-existence,

And your thoughts,

Eyes,

And words will no longer be awry.

The traveler smiles a little,

Because it is so human to want the world to change first.

But the story says,

Come down first,

Let your seeing straighten first,

And then you may find the tree transforms too,

Not by magic,

But by humility.

The world as a dream,

And the gentle dawn.

The traveler returns inside,

Lays down near the fire,

And sleep begins to pull like a tide.

And as the traveler drifts,

A final teaching arrives,

Quietly,

Like a blanket laid over the mind.

This world is like the sleeper's dream.

In the dream,

Sorrow feels final.

In the dream,

Fear feels absolute.

Until the dawn comes.

Until awakening comes.

Until the deep illusion breaks open.

The traveler does not take this as a threat.

Not tonight.

Tonight it lands as comfort.

If I am caught in a dream of worry,

I do not need to solve it all inside the dream.

I can rest.

And waking,

Whenever it comes,

Will show what was real,

And what was only night mist.

And in the warmth of the firelight,

The traveler finally falls asleep.

Your turn to become the traveler.

Now,

Gently,

The story turns toward you.

You are here.

In your own room.

In your own night.

And you do not need to become a saint by morning.

You do not need to understand everything.

You only need to do one simple thing.

Let the reed flute sing.

Let the longing be allowed.

Creating no problems out of the direction which might simply be a compass.

Let yourself be one of the people touching the elephant in the dark.

And let that make you kinder,

Not smaller.

Wiser through realizing the humility of it all.

Let yourself remember the parrot's secret.

That sometimes freedom begins when you stop thrashing inside the cage.

And if shame visits you tonight,

If it tries to sit on the edge of the bed,

Remember the mercy that hid itself,

So a person could leave without being crushed.

You are allowed to rest unfinished.

You are allowed to be loved without earning it in the next hour.

A long,

Soft descent into sleep.

Now we slow everything down.

Let your forehead be smooth.

Let your tongue rest in your mouth.

Let the muscles around your eyes unhook.

Imagine the traveler again.

The traveler is walking,

But the walking is so slow,

It becomes almost like standing.

Each step is a simple sentence.

Here.

Now.

Here.

Now.

The stars above are quiet punctuation marks.

And in the traveler's chest,

The reed flute continues.

Not wailing,

Not demanding,

Just telling the truth.

I came from the reed bed.

I came from the source.

I am learning the way back home.

And you,

Lying here,

Are learning something even simpler.

You do not have to force your way back.

You can be carried by the mercy already moving through you like breath.

In and out.

In and out.

If thoughts come,

Let them pass like clouds across the moon.

Borrowed shapes.

Borrowed stories.

Not the source itself.

A meaningful illusion.

If memories come,

Let them be leaves floating downriver.

No need to grab them.

No need to push them away.

If you feel the old urge to figure it out,

Remember the elephant in the dark house.

Some things are not solved by gripping.

Some things are met by humility.

And if you feel the old urge to try harder,

Remember the parrot.

Sometimes the body needs stillness more than effort.

Sometimes the soul needs quiet more than arguments.

Sometimes the door opens when the nervous self stops rattling the cage.

In and out.

The traveler reaches the edge of the village once more.

The house is there.

The fire is there.

The circle is there.

But now the traveler doesn't even need the stories.

Because the deepest story is happening naturally.

Separation softening.

Return is in the letting go.

Allowing and surrendering ourselves into sleep.

With the holy permission to let go.

So now,

Let the reed flute become quieter.

Let the road fade behind you.

Let the village lights dim in your mind.

And let your own breath be the last narrator.

And if you drift away completely,

Good,

That too is part of the teaching.

And now,

Some lesser known poetry by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi,

The 13th century Persian poet.

Theologian and Sufi mystic.

Be lost in the call.

Lord,

Said David,

Since you do not need us,

Why did you create these two worlds?

Reality replied,

Oh prisoner of time,

I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity.

And I wished this treasure to be known.

So I created a mirror.

Its shining face,

The heart,

Its darkened back,

The world.

The back would please you if you've never seen the face.

Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?

Yet clean away the mud and straw.

And a mirror might be revealed.

Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,

It isn't wine.

If you wish your heart to be bright,

You must do a little work.

My king addressed the soul of my flesh.

You return just as you left.

Where are the traces of my gifts?

We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.

This son doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.

He is a hat to a hundred bald men.

A covering for ten who were naked.

Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass,

My child.

How could a Zephyr ride an ass?

Spirit,

Find your way in seeking lowness like a stream.

Reason,

Tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

Remember God so much that you are forgotten.

Let the caller and the call disappear.

Be lost in the call.

Oh,

You who've gone on pilgrimage.

Where are you?

Where?

Oh,

Where?

Here.

Here is the beloved.

Oh,

Come now.

Come,

Oh,

Come.

Your friend.

He is your neighbor.

He is next to your wall.

You,

Erring in the desert.

What air of love is this?

If you'd see the beloveds,

Form without any form.

You are the house,

The master.

You are the kaba,

You.

Where is a bunch of roses if you would be this garden?

Where?

One soul's pearly essence.

When you're the sea of God,

That's true.

And yet your troubles may turn to treasures rich.

How sad that you yourself veil the treasure that is yours.

Rumi,

I am wind.

You are fire.

Translation by Anmarie Schimmel Oh,

If a tree could wander and move with foot and wings,

It would not suffer the axe blows and not the pain of saws.

For would the sun not wander away in every night?

How could at every morning the world be lighted up?

And if the ocean's water would not rise to the sky,

How would the plants be quickened?

By streams and gentle rain,

The drop that left its homeland,

The sea and then returned.

It found an oyster waiting and grew into a pearl.

Did Yusuf not leave his father in grief and tears and despair?

Did he not by such a journey gain kingdom and fortune wide?

Did not the prophet travel too far Medina,

Friend?

And there he found a new kingdom and ruled a hundred lands.

You lack a foot to travel?

Then journey into yourself.

And like a mine of rubies,

Receive the sunbeams?

Print.

Out of yourself,

Such a journey will lead you to yourself.

It leads to transformation of dust into pure gold.

Look.

Come,

Come,

Whoever you are.

Wanderer,

Worshipper,

Lover of leaving.

It doesn't matter.

Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come,

Even if you have broken your vow.

A thousand times.

Come,

Yet again.

Come,

Come.

Come,

We are as the flute.

And the music in us is from thee.

We are as the mountain and the echo in us is from thee.

We are as pieces of chess engaged in victory and defeat.

Our victory and defeat is from thee.

O thou whose qualities are comely.

Who are we?

O thou soul of our souls,

That we should remain in being beside thee.

We and our existences are really non-existence.

Thou art the absolute being which manifests the perishable.

We all are lions,

But lions on a banner.

Because of the wind,

They are rushing onward from moment to moment.

Their onward rush is visible,

And the wind is unseen.

May that which is unseen not fail from us.

Our wind,

Whereby we are moved,

And our being are of thy gift.

Our whole existence is from thy bringing into being.

On the deathbed,

Go,

Rest your head on a pillow.

Leave me alone.

Leave me ruined.

Exhausted from the journey of this night.

Writhing in a wave of passion till the dawn.

Either stay and be forgiving.

Or,

If you like,

Be cruel and leave.

Flee from me,

Away from trouble.

Take the path of safety,

Far from this danger.

We have crept into this corner of grief.

Turning the water wheel with a flow of tears.

While a tyrant with the heart of flint slays.

And no one says,

Prepare to pay the blood money.

Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times.

But be faithful now,

And endure,

Pale lover.

No cure exists for this pain but to die.

So why should I say,

Cure this pain?

In a dream last night I saw.

An ancient one in the garden of love.

Beckoning with his hand.

Saying,

Come here.

On this path,

Love is the emerald.

The beautiful green that wards off dragon's gnaw.

I am losing myself.

If you are a man of learning,

Read something classic.

A history of the human struggle.

And don't settle for mediocre verse.

This marriage.

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.

May it be sweet milk,

This marriage,

Like wine and halva.

May this marriage offer fruit and shade.

Like the date palm.

May this marriage be full of laughter.

Our every day,

A day in paradise.

May this marriage be a sign of compassion.

A seal of happiness,

Here and hereafter.

May this marriage have a fair face and a good name.

An omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.

I am out of words to describe.

How spirit mingles in this marriage.

This world which is made of our love for emptiness.

Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence.

Existence.

This place made from our love for that emptiness.

Yet somehow comes emptiness.

This existence goes.

Praise to that happening.

Over and over.

For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.

Then one swoop.

One swing of the arm.

That work is over.

Free of who I was.

Free of presence.

Free of dangerous fear.

Hope.

Free of mountainous wanting.

The here and now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw.

Blown off into emptiness.

These words I'm saying so much begin to lose meaning.

Existence.

Emptiness.

Mountain.

Straw.

Words and what they try to say swept.

Out the window.

Down the slant of the roof.

It is said that after Muhammad and the Prophet's revelation does not descend upon anyone else.

Why not?

In fact it does.

But then it is not called revelation.

It is what the Prophet referred to when he said,

The believer sees with the light of God.

When the believer looks.

The believer sees with the light of God.

When the believer looks with God's light.

He sees all things.

First and the last.

The present and the absent.

For how can anything be hidden from God's light?

And if something is hidden.

Then it is not the light of God.

Therefore the meaning of revelation exists.

Even if it is not called revelation.

The drum of the realization of the promise is beating.

We are sweeping the road to the sky.

Your joy is here today.

What remains for tomorrow?

The armies of the day have chased the army of the night.

Heaven and earth are filled with purity and light.

Oh joy for he who has escaped from this world of perfumes and color.

For beyond these colors and these perfumes.

These are other colors in the heart and the soul.

Oh joy for this soul and this heart who have escaped.

The earth of water and clay.

Although this water and this clay contain the hearth of the philosophical stone.

At every instant and from every side.

Resounds the call of love.

We are going to sky.

Who wants to come with us?

We have gone to heaven.

We have been the friends of the angels.

And now we will go back there.

For there is our country.

We are higher than heaven.

More noble than the angels.

Why not go beyond them?

Our goal is the supreme majesty.

What has the fine pearl to do with the world of dust?

Why have you come down here?

Take your baggage back.

What is this place?

Luck is with us.

To us is the sacrifice.

Like the birds of the sea.

Men come from the ocean.

The ocean of the soul.

Like the birds of the sea.

Men come from the ocean.

The ocean of the soul.

How could this bird born from that sea make his dwelling here?

No.

We are the pearls from the bosom of the sea.

It is there that we dwell.

Otherwise.

Otherwise.

How could the wave succeed to the wave that comes from the soul?

The wave named am I not your lord has come.

It has broken the vessel of the body.

And when the vessel is broken.

The vision comes back.

And the union with him.

Our death is our wedding with eternity.

What is the secret?

God is one.

The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house.

This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes.

It is not in the juice made from the grapes.

For he who is living in the light of God.

The death of the carnal soul is a blessing.

Regarding him.

Say neither bad nor good.

For he is gone beyond the good and the bad.

Fix your eyes on God.

And do not talk about what is invisible.

So that he may place another look in your eyes.

It is in the vision of the physical eyes.

That no invisible or secret thing exists.

But when the eyes turn toward the light of God.

What thing could remain hidden under such a light?

Although all lights emanate from the divine light.

Do not call all these lights the light of God.

It is the eternal light.

Which is the light of God.

The ephemeral light is an attribute of the body and the flesh.

Oh God who gives the grace of vision.

The bird of vision is flying towards you with the wings of desire.

I have said before that every craftsman searches for what is not there.

To practice his craft.

A builder looks for the rotten hole.

Where the roof caved in.

A water carrier.

Picks the empty pot.

A carpenter.

Stops at the house with no door.

Workers rush toward some hint.

Of emptiness.

Which they then.

Start to fill.

Their hope though.

Is for emptiness.

So don't think.

You must avoid it.

It contains.

What you need.

Dear soul if you were not friends.

With the vast nothing inside.

Why would you always be casting you net.

Into it.

And waiting so patiently.

This invisible ocean has given you such abundance.

But still you call it death.

That which provides you sustenance and work.

God 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.

This is how strange your fear of death.

And emptiness is.

And how perverse.

The attachment to what you want.

Now that you've heard me.

On your misapprehensions dear friend.

Listen to Atar's story on the same subject.

He strung the pearls of this.

About King Mahmud.

How among the spoils.

Of his Indian campaign.

There was a Hindu boy.

Whom he adopted as a son.

He educated.

And provided royally for the boy.

And later made him vice-regent.

Seated.

On a gold throne beside himself.

One day he found the young man weeping.

Why are you crying?

You're the companion.

Of an emperor.

The entire nation is ranged out.

Before you like stars that you can command.

The young man replied.

I am remembering.

My mother and father.

And how they.

Scared me as a child with threats of you.

Uh-oh he's headed for King Mahmud's court.

Nothing could be more hellish.

Where are they now?

When they should see me sitting here.

This incident is about your fear of changing.

You are the Hindu boy.

Mahmud.

Which means.

Praise to the end.

Is the spirits.

Poverty or emptiness.

The mother and father are your attachment.

To beliefs and blood ties.

And desires and comforting habits.

Don't listen to them.

They seem to protect.

But they imprison.

They are your worst enemies.

They make you afraid.

Of living in emptiness.

Someday you'll weep tears of delight in that court.

Remembering your mistaken parents.

Know that your body nurtures the spirit.

Helps it grow.

And gives it wrong advice.

The body becomes.

Eventually like a vest.

Of chain mail in peaceful years.

Too hot in summer.

And too cold in winter.

But the body's desires.

In another way.

Are like.

An unpredictable associate.

Whom you must be.

Patient with.

And that companion is helpful.

Because patience expands your capacity.

To love and feel peace.

The patience of a rose close to a thorn.

Keeps it fragrant.

It's patience that gives milk.

To the male camel still nursing in its third year.

And patience is what the prophets show to us.

The beauty of careful sewing on a shirt.

Is the patience it contains.

Friendship and loyalty have patience.

As the strength of their connection.

Feeling lonely and ignoble indicates.

That you haven't been patient.

Be with those who mix with God.

As honey blends with milk.

And say.

Anything that comes and goes.

Rises and sets.

Is not.

What I love.

Else you'll be like a caravan fire left.

To flare itself.

Out alone beside the road.

Non-existence.

The religion and creed of the lovers.

Is non-existence.

These spiritual window shoppers.

Who idly ask.

How much is that?

Oh,

I'm just looking.

They handle a hundred items and put them down.

Shadows with no capital.

What is spent is love.

And two eyes wet with weeping.

But these walk into a shop.

And their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment.

In that shop.

Where did you go?

Nowhere.

What did you have to eat?

Nothing much.

Even if you don't know what you want.

Buy underscore something.

Underscore to be part of the exchanging flow.

Start a huge foolish project.

Like Noah.

It makes absolutely no difference.

What people think of you.

I died from minerality.

And became vegetable.

And from vegetativeness.

I died and became animal.

I died from animality.

And became man.

Then why fear disappearance through death?

Next time,

I shall die.

Bringing forth wings and feathers like angels.

After that,

Soaring higher than angels.

What you cannot imagine,

I shall be that.

Soul receives from soul that knowledge.

Therefore,

Not by book.

Nor from tongue.

Illumination.

If knowledge of mysteries come after emptiness of mind,

That is.

Illumination of heart.

If thou wilt be observant and vigilant.

Thou wilt see at every moment the response to thy action.

Be observant if thou wouldst have a pure heart.

For something is born to thee in consequence of every action.

I said,

Thou art harsh like such a one.

No,

He replied,

That I am harsh for good.

Not from rancor and spite.

Whoever enters saying,

This I,

I smite him on the brow.

For this is the shrine of love,

Oh fool.

It is not a sheep coat.

Rub thine eyes and behold the image of the heart.

Make yourself free from self at one stroke.

Like a sword,

Be without trace of soft iron.

Like a steel mirror,

Scour off all rust with contrition.

A star without a name.

When a baby is taken from the wet nurse,

It easily forgets her and starts eating solid food.

Seeds feed a while on ground,

Then lift up into the sun.

So,

You should taste the filtered light and work your way toward wisdom.

With no personal covering.

That's how you came here,

Like a star.

Without a name,

Move across the night sky with those anonymous lights.

God has given us a dark wine so potent that drinking it,

We leave the two worlds.

God has put into the form of hashish a power to deliver the taster from self-consciousness.

God has made sleep so that it erases every thought.

God made Majnun love Leila so much that just her dog would cause confusion in him.

There are thousands of wines that can take over our minds.

Don't think all ecstasies are the same.

Jesus was lost in his love for God.

His donkey was drunk with barley.

Drink from the presence of saints,

Not from those other jars.

Every object,

Every being is a jar full of delight.

Be a connoisseur and taste with caution.

Any wine will get you high.

Judge like a king and choose the purest.

The ones unadulterated with fear or some urgency about what's needed.

Drink the wine that moves you as a camel moves when it's been untied.

And is just ambling about.

Gone to the unseen.

At last you have departed and gone to the unseen.

What marvelous route did you take from this world?

Beating your wings and feathers,

You broke free from this cage.

Rising up to the sky,

You attained the world of the soul.

You were a prized falcon trapped by an old woman.

Then you heard the drummer's call and flew beyond space and time.

As a lovesick nightingale,

You flew among the owls.

Then came the scent of the rose garden and you flew off to meet the rose.

The wine of this fleeting world caused your head to ache.

Finally you joined the tavern of eternity.

Like an arrow,

You sped from the bull and went straight for the bullseye of bliss.

This phantom world gave you false signs.

But you turned from the illusion and journeyed to the land of truth.

You are now the sun.

What need have you for a crown?

You have vanished from this world.

What need have you to tie your robe?

I've heard that you can barely see your soul.

But why look at all?

Yours is now the soul of souls.

Oh heart,

What a wonderful bird you are.

Seeking divine heights,

Flapping your wings,

You smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.

The flowers flee from autumn,

But not you.

You are the fearless rose that grows amidst the freezing wind.

Pouring down like the rain of heaven,

You fell upon the rooftop of this world.

Then you ran in every direction and escaped through the drain spout.

Now the words are over and the pain they bring is gone.

Now you have gone to rest in the arms of the beloved.

How did you get away?

You were the pet falcon of an old woman.

Did you hear the falcon drum?

You were a drunken songbird put in with owls.

Did you smell the odor of a garden?

You got tired of sour fermenting and left the tavern.

You went like an arrow to the target from the bow of time and place.

The man who stays at the cemetery pointed the way,

But you didn't go.

You became light and gave up wanting to be famous.

You don't worry about what you're going to eat,

So why buy an engraved belt?

I've heard of living at the center,

But what about leaving the center of the center?

Flying toward thankfulness,

You become the rare bird with one wing made of fear and one of hope.

In autumn,

A rose crawling along the ground in the cold wind.

Rain on the roof runs down and out by the spout as fast as it can,

Talking his pain.

Lie down and rest now that you've found a friend to be with.

He comes.

He comes,

A moon who's like the sky ne'er saw,

Awake or dreaming,

Crowned with eternal flame no flood can lay.

Lo,

From the flagon of thy love,

O Lord,

My soul is swimming and ruined all my body's house of clay,

When first the giver of the grape my lonely heart befriended.

Wine fired my bosom and my veins filled up,

But when his image all mine eye possessed,

A voice descended.

Well done,

O sovereign wine and peerless cup.

Love's mighty arm from roof to base,

Each dark abode is hewing.

Where chinks reluctant catch a golden ray.

My heart,

When love's sea of a sudden burst into its viewing,

Leaped headlong in with find me now who may.

As the sun moving,

Clouds behind him run,

All hearts attend thee,

O Tabriz's son.

Poor copies out of heaven's originals,

Pale earthly pictures moldering to decay.

What care,

Although your beauties break and fall,

When that which gave them life endures for I?

O never vex thine heart with idle woes,

All high discourse enchanting the rapt ear.

All gilded landscapes and brave glistering shows fade,

Perish,

But it is not as we fear.

Whilst far away the living fountains ply,

Each petty brook goes brimful to the main.

Since barren nor fountain can forever die,

Thy fears how foolish,

Thy lament how vain.

What is this fountain,

Wouldst thou rightly know?

The soul whence issue all created things.

Doubtless the river shall not cease to flow,

Till silenced are the everlasting springs.

Farewell to sorrow and with quiet mind.

Drink,

Long and deep,

Let others fondly deem the channel empty they perchance may find,

Or fathom that unfathomable stream.

The moment thou to this low world waste given,

A ladder stood whereby thou mightst aspire.

And first thy steps,

Which upward still have striven,

From mineral mounted to the plant,

Then higher,

To animal existence,

Next the man,

With knowledge,

Reason,

Faith.

O wondrous goal!

This body,

Which a crumb of dust began,

How fairly fashioned the consummate whole.

Yet stay not here thy journey,

Thou shalt grow,

An angel bright and home,

Far off in heaven.

Plod on,

Plunge last in the great sea,

That's so.

Thy little drop make oceans seven times seven.

The son of God,

Nay,

Leave that word unsaid.

Say,

God is one,

The pure,

The single truth.

What though thy frame be withered,

Old and dead,

If the soul keep her fresh immortal youth?

Departure up,

O ye lovers,

And away.

Tis time to leave the world,

For I park loud and clear from heaven.

The from of parting calls,

Let none delay.

The cameleer had risen amain,

Made ready all the camel train,

And quittance now desires to gain.

Why sleep ye travellers,

I pray,

Behind us and before,

There swells the din of parting and of bells.

To shoreless space,

Each moment sails a disembodied spirit away,

From yonder starry lights,

And through those curtain awnings,

Darkly blue,

Mysterious figures float in view.

All strange and secret things display.

From this orb,

Wheeling round its pole,

A wondrous slumber o'er thee stole.

O weary life that weighest not,

O sleep that on my soul dost weigh,

O heart,

Toward thy heart's love wind,

And O friend,

Fly toward the friend,

Be wakeful,

Watchman,

To the end drows seemingly no watchman may.

Remembered Music Tis said,

The pipe and lute that charm our ears,

Derive their melody from rolling spheres,

But faith,

Or passing speculations bound,

Can see what sweetens every jangled sound.

We,

Who are parts of Adam,

Heard with him the song of angels and of seraphim.

Our memory,

Though dull and sad,

Retains.

Some echo still of those unearthly strains.

O Music is the meat of all who love.

Music uplifts the soul to realms above.

The ashes glow,

The latent fires increase.

We listen and are fed with joy and peace.

The Spirit of the Saints There is a water that flows down from heaven to cleanse the world of sin by grace divine.

At last,

Its whole stock spent,

Its virtue gone.

Dark with pollution,

Not its own,

It speeds.

Back to the fountain of all purities.

Whence,

Freshly bathed,

Earthward it sweeps again,

Trailing a robe of glory bright and pure.

This water is the Spirit of the Saints,

Which ever sheds,

Until itself is beggared.

God's balm on the sick soul,

And then returns to him who made the purest light of heaven.

The True Sufi What makes the Sufi?

Purity of heart.

Not the patched mantle and the lust perverse of those vile earthbound men who steal his name.

He in all dregs discerns the essence pure.

In hardship,

Ease.

In tribulation,

Joy.

The phantom sentries who with batons drawn guard beauty's place-gate and curtained bower give way before him,

Unafraid he passes and showing the king's arrow,

Enters in.

We are the flute,

Our music is all thine.

We are the mountains echoing only thee and movest to defeat or victory.

Lions emblazoned high on flags unfurled.

The wind,

Invisible,

Sweeps us through the world.

First he appeared in the realm,

Inanimate.

Thence came into the world of plants and lived.

The plant life many a year,

More,

Then took the onward way to animal existence and once more saved when he feels himself moved with desire.

To him,

As babes that seek the breast and know not why,

Began the wild realm.

Advancing,

He became intelligent,

Cunning and keen of wit,

As he is now.

No length,

And from his present soul he shall be changing.

There he is.