The mind may give you what you think is evidence.
Love gives you the Beloved, the Friend.
What comes from the mind is dirty water.
What comes from the Beloved is the Water of Life.
You may ascend to the sky with all the signs of a lover’s journey,
all the evidence which your mind so freely gives.
But in the sky, you will find no signs, no tricks, no traces.
The Rubaiyat of Rumi (2021), Rubai 1376 (Volume 3).
Come, O One who gives new life to the world.
Stop the workings of this smart mind. Continue reading “Where is His Roof? (8/9/2020)”
What is night, what is day for us
as long as He is in our heart?
He is the One who burns our heart. Continue reading “Enough for Us (7/26/2020)”
Have you ever known a wine which has no hangover?
Have you ever picked a rose which has no thorns? Continue reading “Have You Ever…? (6/14/2020)”
Without the pure water from the sea of Love,
our pearl would turn into stone.
If there were no world to be found inside of our soul,
our soul and that world would shrink and confine us.
Pain from the Beloved polishes your heart and soul.
Hold fast to it and it will clean away all of your dirt and rust.
Rubailer (2016), Rubai #1, paghe 176.
Once I got a tiny whiff of Your scent,
I was forced to go Your way.
My color and scent were stolen by Yours.
I was annihilated in the end, so nothing was left of me,
not even a scent. No scent. Nothing.
Rubailer (2016), Rubai #3, page 175.
Who is it that gives taste and charm to color and shape?
When He hides, form becomes like a child of the devil. Continue reading “Who Is It? (5/3/2020)”
My heart appreciates Beauty.
Why should I run away from the Beloved?
The dagger in my hand is a good one.
Why should I turn my face away from battle? Continue reading “If I Miss this Opportunity Now (4/5/2020)”
Just now, ruby-colored tears have started seeping from my eyes.
A sign has appeared from Love, yet a trace of Love’s dust never appears. Continue reading “A Sign Has Appeared from Love (3/8/2020)”
I am a mountain. I am echoing the Beloved.
I am a painting. That Beauty is my painter.
Do you think all these words I say belong to me?
No. They are the sound of the key turning in the lock.
Rubailer (2016), Rubai #1, page 128.