Whatever I say, You are the subject. Wherever I go, every impulse is toward You. 🍃 It’s true, those who don’t love You are soul-less dolls, but the living need a Beloved like You. 🍃 You’ve veiled Yourself from the whole universe. At a single sight of You it would perish. 🍃 Giants and elves, humans, angelic powers, all beings are in love with You. 🍃 The seraphim and maidens of paradise crowd around You and can’t bear to leave Your presence. 🍃 From your hand poison is a delicious drink. My soul is healed by anything You do. 🍃 When I eat something sweet without You, it’s bitter. You are the soul’s taste, what else could I want? 🍃 If my soul suffered a hundred wounds, my joy would not decrease. This love washes everything clean. 🍃 Yunus is just one atom of it. This planet, this whole universe is born from a taste of love 🍃
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Translated from Turkish by Kabir Helminski and Refik Algan Original Title of the poem: Ne söz keleci der isem dilim seni söyleyecek
You live that you may learn to love. You love is that you may learn to live. No other reason is required of Man.
And what is to love but for the lover to absorb forever the beloved so that the twain be one?
And whom, or what, is one to love? Is one to choose a certain leaf upon the Tree of Life and pour upon it all one’s heart? What of the branch that bears the leaf? What of the stem that holds the branch? What of the bark that shields the stem? What of the roots that feed the bark, the stem, the branches and the leaves? What of the soil embosoming the roots? What of the sun, and sea, and air that fertilize the soil?
If one small leaf upon a the tree be worthy of your love how much more so the tree in its enterity? The love that singles out a fraction of the whole foredooms itself to grief.
You say, 'But there be leaves upon a single tree. Some are healthy, some are sick; some are beautiful, some are ugly; some are giants, some are dwarfs. How can we help but pick and choose?' I say to you. Out of the paleness of the sick process the freshness of the healthy. I further say to you that ugliness is Beauty's palette, paint and brush: and that the dwarf would not have been a dwarf had he not given of his stature to the giant.
You are the tree of Life. Beware of fractionating yourselves. Set not a fruit against a fruit, a leaf against a leaf, a bough against a bough; nor set the stem against the roots; nor set the tree against the mother- soil. That is precisely what you do when you love one part more than the rest, or to the exclusion of the rest.
You are the Tree of Life. Your roots are everywhere. Your boughs and leaves are everywhere. Your fruits are in every mouth. Whatever be the fruits upon that tree; whatever be its boughs and leaves; whatever be the roots; they are your fruits; they are your leaves and boughs; they are your roots. If you would have the tree bear sweet and fragrant fruit, if you would have it ever strong and green, see to the sap wherewith you feed the roots.
Love is the Sap of Life. While Hatred is the pus of Death. But Love, like blood, must circulate unhindered in the veins. Repress the blood, and it becomes a menace and a plague. And what is Hate but Love repressed, or Love withheld, therefore becoming such a deadly poison both to the feeder and the fed; both to the hater and to that he hates. A yellow leaf upon your tree of life is but a Love-weaned leaf, Blame not the yellow leaf. A withered bough is but a Love-starved bough. Blame not the withered bough. A putrid fruit is but a Hatred-suckled fruit. Blame not the putrid fruit. But rather blame your blind and stingy heart that would dole out the sap of life to few and would deny it to many, thereby denying it to itself.
No love is possible except by the love of self. No self is real save the All-embracing Self. Therefore is God all Love, because he loves himself.
So long as you are pained by Love, you have not found your real self, nor have you found the golden key of Love. Because you love an ephemeral self, your love is ephemeral.
For in loving anything, or anyone, you love in truth but yourselves. Likewise in hating anything, or anyone, you hate in truth but yourselves. For that which you hate is bound up inseparably with that which you love, like the face and the reverse side of the same coin. If you would be honest with yourselves, then must you love what you hate and what hates you before you love what you love and what loves you.
Love is not a virtue. Love is a necessity; more so than bread and water; more so than light and air.
Let no one pride himself on loving. But rather breathe in Love and breathe it out just as unconsciously and freely as you breathe in the air and breathe it out.
For Love needs no one to exalt it. Love will exalt the heart that it finds worthy of itself.
Seek no rewards for Love. Love is reward sufficient unto Love, as Hate is punishment sufficient unto Hate.
Nor keep any accounts with Love. For Love accounts to no one but itself.
Love neither lends nor borrows; Love neither buys nor sells; but when it gives, it gives its all; and when it takes, it takes its all. Its very taking is a giving. Its very giving is a taking. Therefore is it the same to-day, to-morrow and forevermore.
life simply happens Utterly spontaneously All by itself There are no things nor non things It does not arise from some really big thing No source nor god Nor does it arise from emptiness or nothingness... Simultaneously arising and self-erasing Looking and feeling like anything at all awakening endarkening how beautifully the dream spins itself raveling and unravelling blooming and wilting sound and silence color and light and dark
clearly, clearly without any one to know thought paints echoes of a flowing dreamscape that has no edges nor center nor outside from which to view it or change it or pour endless love letters into the sea of dreams
ripples endlessly flowing caused by no stone nor wind even your beautiful reflection has no face even this beauty this awe this heartbreakingly wondrous unknowing spin into this fairytale of love
this dream of a dream within a dream sourceless reflections twirl above and below into and through each other seemingly drawing lines with space and time
between here and there there is no distance when all measurement is made up there is no before or after when separate moments are imaginary there is no outline of sky nor inline of tree nor any thing that can be captured as there is no hand to grasp the flowing that neither moves or stays still no one who sings nor is silent
we are but an echoes dream there is no sound no dream... no words... yet all these words paint the dream
It has become obvious that none of this is what it once seemed. We are all dream characters in a dream. Source, Spirit, God, Goddess, gods... or: 'my true self,' 'my higher self'... or: devas, angles, spirit guides, forces good or evil... or: guru, sat-guru, master, teacher... these are all concepts, human ideas, constructs; and, as such, dream characters here with us in the dream. There is no separate 'God,' just as there is no separate 'us.' All these are projections. What there is, is This. All That Is. This is not just another name for God. Not a being named 'God' or 'Source' or anything else, outside of, other than, What Is. In all reality there are not two. There is only All That Is. This. You, who you really are when you say "I am" and I, who I really am when I say "I am" are the same "I am" All That Is. 'you,' 'me,' 'we,' apparent individuals, are dream characters in the dream which 'I,' All That Is, dreams. There is no we, no me, no you. Even the dream is within All That Is. That is who You really are, not the you you think you are.
THE wine, lit by a ray from his face, Reveals the bubbles of form, Such as the material world and the soul-world, Which appear as veils to the saints. Universal Reason seeing this is astounded, Universal Soul is reduced to servitude. Drink wine ! for the bowl is the face of the Friend. Drink wine ! for the cup is his eye, drunken and flown with wine. Drink wine ! and be free from heart-coldness, For a drunkard is better than the self-satisfied. The whole world is his tavern, His wine-cup the heart of each atom, Reason is drunken, angels drunken, soul drunken, Air drunken, earth drunken, heaven drunken. The sky, dizzy from the wine-fumes' aroma, Is staggering to and fro ; The angels, sipping pure wine from goblets, Pour down the dregs on the world ; From the scent of these dregs man rises to heaven. Inebriated from the draught, the elements Fall into water and fire. Catching the reflection, the frail body becomes a soul, And the frozen soul by its heat Thaws and becomes living. The creature world remains giddy, For ever straying from house and home. One from the dregs' odour becomes a philosopher, One viewing the wine's colour becomes a relater, One from half a draught becomes religious, One from a bowlful becomes a lover, Another swallows at one draught Goblet, tavern, cup-bearer, and drunkards ; He swallows all, but still his mouth stays open.
As my prayer became more attentive and inward I had less and less to say. I finally became completely silent. I started to listen – which is even further removed from speaking. I first thought that praying entailed speaking. I then learnt that praying is hearing, not merely being silent. This is how it is. To pray does not mean to listen to oneself speaking, Prayer involves becoming silent, And being silent, And waiting until God is heard.
When I start over, he is my leader. When I seek my heart, he is its beloved. When I search for peace, he is my intercessor. When I go to war, he is my dagger. When I come to a gathering, he is the wine and sweets. When I enter the rose garden, he is the narcissus. When I go into a mine, he is the ruby and carnelian. When I come into the sea, he is the pearl. When I wander in the desert, he is the oasis. When I fly to the heavens, he is the stars. When I exercise patience, he is my heart. When I burn with heartache, he is the censer. When I enter battle in wartime, he, as commander, controls the formation of the ranks. When I go to a banquet for festivities, he is the wine pourer, musician, and cup. When I write letters to friends, he is the paper, pen, and ink. When I awaken, he is my new awareness. When I fall asleep, he enters my dreams. When I seek a verse for my poetry, he stretches my mind for rhyme. Whatever form you can imagine, he stands above it— like painter and pen. No matter how much higher you look, he is higher than that “higher” of yours. Go and leave behind lectures and textbooks. You’d be better off having him as your manual. Now be silent, for all six directions are his light. And when you pass beyond the six directions, he is the ruler. O love, your satisfaction is my satisfaction— this is what’s most effective. And your secret is my secret— therefore, I won’t reveal it. Bravo, Shams of Tabriz, who is shining like the sun, and deeply worthy of himself.
In Rumi’s imagination, Shams, in reflecting the beauty of the beloved, assumed the place of the qibla—the direction for prayer. The qibla directs the bodily prayer practice of Islam, whereas a shaykh guides the soul through the inner mystical dimensions of the religion. According to Rumi, the mystical dimension is essential to religious devotion. He even boldly suggests that in a heightened state of spiritual ecstasy, the outer world—including the most sacred site of Islam—can disappear completely. The Ka‘ba is the black-clothed cube shrine in Mecca, which Muslims believe was rebuilt at God’s command by Abraham and Ishmael. In its eastern corner is the Black Stone set in a ring of silver, which pilgrims kiss, touch, or point to while on pilgrimage. For Rumi, praying toward Mecca was obligatory for the body, but gazing upon the face of Shams was prayer for the soul. Shams pointed Rumi’s longing and loving heart toward the divine within.
