Poems are rough notations for the music we are.
The Music We Are
Did you hear that winter’s over?
The basil and the carnations
cannot control their laughter.
The nightengale, back from his wandering,
has been made singing master over
all the birds. The trees reach out
their congratulations. The soul
goes dancing through the king’s doorway.
Anemones blush because they have seen
the rose naked. Spring, the only fair
judge, walks in the courtroom, and
several December thieves steal away.
Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in
from nonexistence, galaxies scattered
around their feet. Have you met them?
Do you hear the bud of Jesus crooning
in the cradle? A single narcissus
flower has been appointed Inspector
of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen.
The wind is pouring wine! Love
used to hide inside images. No more!
The orchard hangs out its lanterns.
The dead come stumbling by in shrouds.
Nothing can stay bound or imprisoned.
You say, “End this poem here and
wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.
from Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing
by Jalal al-Din Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks