Every mind becomes confused when it sees Your face.
Every face is scratched by Your Absence.
I have become drunk because of Your reproach.
I don’t even know if Your pure wine is better than a sedimented one. Continue reading “I am at Peace with Him (11/18/18)”
On the way to Love, each lover must either annihilate himself
or give up his life in death.
Some say,
“Love’s goal is to drink water from the Fountain of Life.”
These are just empty words, O lover, just empty words.
Rubailer (2016), Page 226, Rubai #3
Don’t give water to me. I want to be Your thirsty one.
Make me Your lover. Take away my sleep.
O One whose beautiful image has become the Mihrab* for me,
I will keep doing Namaz** every day and night. Continue reading “The Dust Raised Up by Words (11/4/18)”
Every particle of my body shows the signs of my Beloved.
Every part of my body is the expression of Him.
I lean towards Him as a lyre,
my crying song created by His hand.
Rubailer (2016), Page 102, Rubai #3
Does the Earth’s honey taste sweet to the one
who has the pleasure of Love in his heart?
What can you do with the mind
which falls upside-down with only one glass of wine? Continue reading “The Pleasure of Love (10/21/18)”
I know how easily my Beloved gets tired of me.
Even the thought that I love Him seems to hurt Him a lot.
But, no one can go far on the road to the Beloved with fear and shyness.
If the road I take becomes difficult for walking, I will ride a horse.
Rubailer (2016), Page 299, Rubai #4
The words which come from the soul are a curtain to the soul.
The fog which comes from the sea hides the coast and the pearls of that sea.
It is a great task to get involved in philosophical discourses.
But, the explanation is the curtain to the Sun of the Truth. Continue reading “Throw Away This Image (10/7/18)”
Hear this if you can:
“One has to go beyond himself to reach Him.”
When you do arrive in the world of Absence, don’t talk.
Ecstasy is the language there, not words.
Rubailer (2016), Page 175, Rubai #1
Your Love has made me drunk.
I am so drunk and out of myself that I keep clapping my hands.
How could I possibly know what I am doing? Continue reading “Hundreds of Jars of Wine (9/23/18)”
There is nothing remaining in my ears except Love’s murmur.
There is nothing remaining in my soul–no reason, no thought–
only the sweetness of Eternity.
The colorless brush of Love has mixed all colors.
Now, it can’t even remember its past.
Rubailer (2016), Page 184, Rubai #4