Spillings by Rumi

The mirror inside me shows
I cannot say what, but I cannot know.

I run from body. I run from spirit.
I do not belong anywhere.

I am not alive.
Do you smell the decay?

You talk about my craziness.
Listen rather to the honed-blade sanity I say.

This gourd head on top of a dervish robe,
do I look like someone you know?

This dipper gourd full of liquid,
upside down and not spilling a drop.

Or, if it spills, it drops into God and rounds into pearls.
I form a cloud over that ocean and gather the spillings.

When Shams is here, I rain.
After a day or two, lilies sprout, the shape of my tongue.

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