The sun is love. The lover,
a speck circling the sun.
A Spring wind moves to dance
any branch that isn't dead.
*
Something opens our wings. Something
makes boredom and hurt disappear.
Someone fills the cup in front of us.
We taste only sacredness.
*
Held like this, to draw in milk,
no will, tasting clouds of milk,
never so content.
-The Essential Rumi, translations by Coleman Barks
Whirling Dervishs in black walnut ink
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