Friday, July 16, 2010

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 am 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 lke 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.

Shams Tabriz, if you would show your face
to me again, I could flee the imposition of this life.


dirt clustit said...

Hi Ruth,

Hope all is well, really liked the Rumi with the picture of the Bar. That place had some Character, Class and Charm.

Think of the gold mine of stories if the walls could talk or you could interview all the staff that ever worked there all at once.

And the different things that the different levels of employees saw (behind the scenes grimy and hidden dishwashers, the polished

for show barmaids and bartenders, and the in between the bussed the tables)

Three different worlds that were all integral parts of one full function. I think just about everything functions in this world in a fairly
similar way (in the grand scheme)

dirt clustit said...

least it sometimes seems :) well, the vision I hear when I read of verbs and other tings