Who Says Words With My Mouth?
All day I think about it,
then at night I say it.
Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere,
I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness
began in some other tavern.
When I get back around
to that place,
I'll be completely sober.
Meanwhile, I'm like a bird
from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes?
What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste
one sip of an answer,
I could break out
of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here
will have to take me home.
This poetry,
I never know
what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet
and rarely speak at all.
From The Essential Rumi, page 2. Translated by Coleman Barks.
© Copyright, 2004, HarperSanFrancisco. Permission pending; fair use intended.
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