Rumi Quotes

"The Reed Flute's Song

Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated.

"Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.

Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.

Anyone pulled from a source
longs to go back.

At any gathering I am there,
mingling in the laughing and grieving,

a friend to each, but few
will hear the secrets hidden

within the notes. No ears for that.
Body flowing out of spirit,

spirit up from body: no concealing
that mixing. But it's not given us

to see the soul. The reed flute
is fire, not wind. Be that empty."

Hear the love fire tangled
in the reed notes, as bewilderment

melts into wine. The reed is a friend
to all who want the fabric torn

and drawn away. The reed is hurt
and salve combining. Intimacy

and longing for intimacy, one
song. A disastrous surrender

and a fine love, together. The one
who secretly hears this is senseless.

A tongue has one customer, the ear.
A sugarcane flute has such effect

because it was able to make sugar
in the reedbed. The sound it makes

is for everyone. Days full of wanting,
let them go by without worrying

that they do. Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note.

Every thirst gets satisfied except
that of these fish, the mystics,

who swim a vast ocean of grace
still somehow longing for it!

No one lives in that without
being nourished every day.

But if someone doesn't want to hear
the song of the reed flute,

it's best to cut conversation
short, say good-bye, and leave."

"فى داخلنا يَصدَحُ صوتٌ
بأبياتٍ من "خِسرو" ، بمَقطَعٍ من "شِيرين" .
صوتٌ هادئٌ يَستَثيرُنا
وأحياناً كلماتٌ مثيرةٌ تَجعَلُنا هادئين ."

Tear off the mask. Your face is glorious.

A pearl in the shell does not touch the ocean. Be a pearl without a shell. a mindful flooding. a spark turned to flame. bird settling nest. love lived

لقد صارت الأيام تسعى فى أحزاننا بغير وقت، وأاصبحت قرينة للأحزان والمحن.
فإن مضت الأيام فقل لها اذهبى ولا خوف، ولتبق أنت يا من لا مثيل لك فى الطهر.

I am in Love with Love
and Love is in love with me.
My body is in Love with the soul
and the soul is in Love with my body.
I opened my arms to Love
and Love embraced me like a lover.

WONDER WITHOUT WILLPOWER

Love’s way becomes a pen sometimes writing g-sounds like gold or r-sounds

like tomorrow in different calligraphy
styles sliding by, darkening the paper

Now it’s held upside down, now beside
the head, now down and on to something

else, figuring. One sentence saves
an illustrious man from disaster, but

fame does not matter to the split tongue
of a pen. Hippocrates knows how the cure

must go. His pen does not. This one
I am calling pen, or sometimes flag,

has no mind. You, the pen, are most sanely
insane. You cannot be spoken of rationally.

Opposites are drawn into your presence but
not to be resolved. You are not whole

or ever complete. You are the wonder
without willpower going where you want.

I am merely a guest born in this world, to know the secrets that lie beyond it.

The heart is cooking a pot of food for you. Be patient until it is cooked

My Worst Habit

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I’m with.
If you’re not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
tangle and knot up.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.
When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean. There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can’t hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.
Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.

How to cure bad water ?
Send it back to the river !
How to cure bad habits ?
Send me back to you.

FORM IS ECSTATIC

There is a shimmering excitement in being sentient and shaped. The

caravan master sees his camels lost in it, nose to tail, as he himself is,

his friend, and the stranger coming toward them. A gardener watches the

sky break into song, cloud wobbly with what it is. Bud, thorn, the same.

Wind, water, wandering this essential state. Fire, ground, gone. That's

how it is with the outside. Form is ecstatic. Now imagine the inner:

soul, intelligence, the secret worlds!
And don't think the garden loses its

ecstasy in winter. It's quiet, but the roots are down there rioutous.

If someone bumps you in the street, don't be angry. Everyone careens

about in this surprise. Respond in kind. Let the knots untie, turbans

be given away. Someone drunk on this could drink a donkeyload a night.

Believer, unbeliever, cynic, lover, all combine in the spirit-form we are,

but no one yet is awake like Shams.

آزمودم عقل دورانديش را، بعد از اين ديوانه سازم خويش را

If you can’t smell the fragrance don’t come into the garden of Love. If you’re unwilling to undress don’t enter into the stream of Truth. Stay where you are. Don’t come our way.

Remember,
the entrance door
to the sanctuary
is inside you.

This We Have Now

This we have now
is not imagination.

This is not
grief or joy.

Not a judging state,
or an elation,
or sadness.

Those come
and go.

This is the presence
that doesn't.

It's dawn, Husam,
here in the splendor of coral,
inside the Friend, the simple truth
of what Hallaj said.

What else could human beings want?

When grapes turn to wine
they're wanting
this.

When the nightsky pours by,
it's really a crowd of beggars,
and they all want some of this!

This
that we are now
created the body, cell by cell,
like bees building a honeycomb.

The human body and the universe
grew from this, not this
from the universe and the human body.