From now on the nightingales
will sing of us sitting here outdoors,
where wind lifts the hair of the willow
and starts her dancing.
God knows what they say
to each other then.
The plane tree holds out
its broad hands in praise of the meadow,
understanding just a little
of the passion of the grass.
I ask a rose, Where did you get such skin?
She laughs. How could she answer?
She is drunk, but not enough
to say secrets, not so dissolute as I am.
Wander with drunks if you want to know
what they have been hiding.
They will open the purse-mouth
and spill the lavishness.
There is a wine fermenting
in the breast of a mystic,
and a voice there inviting
you to a banquet.
A human breast can give milk,
but also wine, and also
there is a flowing there
that tells stories.
Listen as you take in the milk,
then the wine, and then the stories.
Lay down your cap and your cloak.
Start talking from the majesty itself.
And now be quiet.
Very few will hear.
Most copper does not change to gold
for any philosopher's stone.
Bring your words to Shams.
Let sunlight mix with language
and be the world.
From "RUMI - Bridge to The Soul"
Edited and Translated Coleman Barks 2007
Harper Collins Publishers
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