Rumi's Poem on Aging

Why does a date-palm lose its leaves in autumn?
Why does every beautiful face grow in old age?
Wrinkled like the back of a libyan lizard?
Why does a full head of hair get bald?
Why is the tall, straight figure
That divided the ranks like a spear
Now bent alomost double?
Why is it that the
Lion strength weakens to nothing?
The wrestler who could hold anyone down
Is led out with two people supporting him,
Their shoulders under his arms?
God answers,
"They put on borrowed robes
and pretended they were theirs.
I take the beautiful clothes back,
so that you will learn the robe
of appearance is only a loan."
Your lamp was lit from another lamp.
All God wants is your gratitude for that.

For Rumi, it is not aging that is loss. On contrary, life itself is loss, a nostalgia for our Origin from which we find ourselves separated. For Jalal ad-Din, the"last of life" is that for which "the first was made," even includes death itself:

Inside the Great Mystery that is, we don't really own anything. What is this competition we feel then, before we go, one at a time, through the same gate.

Light from the Eyes

A quote to remember, "There are eyes which get light and there are eyes which give it." 

Paul Claudel, a French poet.

Poem on The Holy Prophet

Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi

O Beloved of God, you are the Messenger of the Sole Creator. You are the one chosen by the Holy Lord of Majesty (Who is) without equal.

(You are) the delight of the Lord God (and) the highest Full-Moon of createdbeings, (and) you are the light of the eyes of (God's) Messengers (and) the Lampof our eyes.

On the night of the Ascension, (the angel) Gabriel was at (your) stirrup,(and) you are (the one who was) standing on top of the blue domes (of heaven).

O Messenger of God, you know (that) your community are deprived and destitute, (and) you are the guide of those who are vulnerable and helpless.


(You are) the cypress tree of the rose garden of prophethood (and) the spring-season of spiritual knowledge.

You are the rosebush of the garden of the ReligiousLaw, and the nightingale of the lofty (heavens).

Shamsee Tabreez is one who has the praise of the Messenger in his heart.

O Mustafa, you are the supreme master.

Prayer in Love

"A lover offers his prayers in a hidden language,
wherein no letters exist.
It is not for everyone-
Only the aching heart of a lover can know this prayer.
With tears from his eyes and blood from his heart,
He purifies himself with Wudu.
The tongue does not move, nor do the lips flutter-
A very special prayer is this."

-Sultan Bahu

I asked God

I asked God

Author Unknown

I asked God to take away my pain.
God said, No.
It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up.

I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.
God said, No.
Her spirit was whole, her body was only temporary.

I asked God to grant me patience.
God said, No.
Patience is a by-product of tribulations, it isn't granted, it is earned.

I asked God to give me happiness.
God said, No.
I give you blessings, Happiness is up to you.

I asked God to spare me pain.
God said, No.
Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares and brings you closer to me.

I asked God to make my spirit grow.
God said, No.
You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful.

I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
God said, No.
I will give you life so that you may enjoy all things.

I ask God to help me LOVE others, as much as he loves me.
God said... finally you have the idea!

Bulleh Ki Jaana With English Translation

What Do I Know of Love? By Rumi

What Do I Know of Love
Rumi

I talk of Love.

He says, “what do you know of Love.”
It’s insanity, It’s Pain.
How it cuts through your soul.
How it burns.


What do I know of Love?
Explosions,
in my heart,
Then, silence.


Tears.
I have seen a glimpse of love,
And have witnessed it’s insanity.
Why do I cry? Oh God, Why…?


He speaks of your Love.
But the love of your creation alone,
has driven me,
to madness.
What do I know, of your Love?


There it goes,
Taxiing down the runway.
And here, I stand,
with my pieces all around me.
My drunken heart,
my numb senses.


What are these at my feet?
Shattered glass?
I must try to put them back together,
From where should I start?
Where should I start?


The lonely bench,
in the morning fog.
The weeping flowers.
My wailing heart.


Why do they all cry?
Why?
Do they also know,
of love?