I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I’ve been knocking from the inside. - Rumi

لا تجزع من جرحك، وإلا فكيف للنور أن يتسلل إلى باطنك؟

You are my wine, my joy,
My garden, my springtime,
My slumber, my repose,
Without you, I can't cope.

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth.