Rumi died as a deep red sunset filled the sky
the evening of December 17, 1287.
I was born the morning of December 18,
nearly seven centuries later and half a world away.
Of course it is presumptuous to imagine
that the great Persian poet found a new incarnation in my distant being.
I’m an aimless wanderer in his ecstatic realm,
a fleeting bubble in his vat of sparkling wine.
Yet a common thirst animates our quest:
a yearning for sohbet with the divine.
Lion of the spirit, you taught me
to roar with an eternal breath,
to plunder the silent spaces between worlds,
to release the pearl of beauty from the shell of desire.
Emperor of passion, you taught me that poems
are rough notations for the music rising within,
to see the Beloved in the eyes of strangers and
dance to the melody that connects all souls.
You told me to stop weaving and watch the pattern improve,
to quit counting grains in the sands of time,
to stop treading the river of like and dislike
and bathe in the still water of is.
Relinquishing the self, you made a livelihood of dying,
ego melting like snow, washed of itself.
Awakening within your dream of sleep,
I see moonlight peering through the attic window of the past.
I follow your voice, cross the desert to an oasis of peace.
I have no more words.
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