There is a hand hidden in the pen's writing,
a rider invisible in a horse's dancing about.
We see the arrow's flight, but not the bow,
what is manifest, not the source.
But don't discard the arrow.
Notice the royal markings.
We are the confused polo ball
that does not see the bat's arc coming down.
A tailor tears out seams and sews again.
A blacksmith blows on the fire.
In one moment a saint forgets.
In another, a degenerate begins a forty-day fast.
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At the request of a Rumi Reader, I have enabled comments, because I agree that someone, sometime might want to write about the power of Rumi's words. So many times they have met me in ways I just have to share, and so I want you to have that opportunity here. There is no expectation for comments, but please do write something if you feel the urge. ~ Ruth