I see my beauty in you,
I become a mirror
that cannot close its eyes to your longing.
My eyes wet with yours in the early light.
My mind every moment giving birth,
always conceiving, always in the ninth month,
always the come-point.
How do I stand this?
We become these words we say,
a wailing sound moving out into the air.
These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere,
how does your face contain them?
I am a fly in your honey, then closer,
a moth caught in the flame's allure,
then empty sky stretched out in homage.
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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