Thank You

where are you, where, oh where?
Here, here is the Beloved!
Oh come now, come, oh come!
Your friend, he is your neighbor,
he is next to your wall -
You, erring in the desert -
what air of love is this?
If you'd see the Beloved's
form without any form -
You are the house, the master,
You are the Kaaba, you! . . .
Where is a bunch of roses,
if you would be this garden?
Where, one soul's pearly essence
when you're the Sea of God?
That's true - and yet your troubles
may turn to treasures rich -
How sad that you yourself veil
the treasure that is yours!
-Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī
5 Comments:
Okay, Muse, this isn't exactly what you might have had in mind, but it's a pretty poem.
You are the Kaaba. Darn Muslims! Nice mental image, though.
Ah, just like the Commodores sing:
"She's a brick....hoooouse!"
The poem is really lovely, and men prostrating themselves in front of women is a nice image indeed.
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