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.
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