Not a day on any calendar…

Spring, and everything outside is growing, even the tall cypress tree.  We must not leave this place. Around the lip of the cup we share, these words,

My Life Is Not Mine.

If someone were to play music, it would have to be very sweet. We’re drinking wine, but not through lips. We’re sleeping it off, but not in bed. Rub the cup across your forehead. This day is outside living and dying.

Give up wanting what other people have.  That way you’re safe.  “Where, where can I be safe?” you ask.

This is not a day for asking questions, not a day on any calendar.  This day is conscious of itself. This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness, more manifest than saying can say.  Thoughts take form with words, but this daylight is beyond and before thinking and imagining.  Those two, they are so thirsty, but this gives smoothness to water.  Their mouths are dry, and they are tired.

The rest of this poem is too blurry for them to read.

—from The Essential Rumi


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