I'm here by the gate.
Maybe you'll throw open a door and call.
I'm drenched with being here,
rambling drunk. Things dissolve around me,
but I'm still sitting here.
One clap in the emptiness of space. New centuries begin.
Laughter. A rose, a wise loveliness, the sun
coming out brilliantly, on horseback.
All this day we'll be close, drinking and joking,
close to your face. Whenever I say your face
my soul jumps out of its skin!
Is there some other roof somewhere? Any name
other than yours? Any glasses of wine other than this
you bring me so perfectly?
If I find my life, I 'll never let go,
holding and twisting the cloth of your coat
as in that dream when I saw you.
By this gate kings are waiting with me.
Your eyes, I 'm lost remembering your eyes.
Look at us out here moaning with our shirts ripped open.
Anyone seeing your face and not obsessed with the sight
is cold as rock in the ground.
What further curse could I put on him?
What's worse than having no word from you?
Don't waste your life with those who don't see you.
Stay with us. We're each running across the beach,
torn loose from friends, making friends with the sea.
On flood moves in its sleep. One's confused
out of its channel. One says All praise to God.
Another, No strength but yours.
by Rūmī (1207-1273)
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