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, siting 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.

... Mevlana Jalalludin Rumi