"I threw my heart to the winds and followed you. One day the wind brought me your scent, my heart swelled in gratitude and scattered in the wind." -- RUMI
What shall I write of my soul, as it lives in another?
It sings in the melody of an ancient Persian poem, that ebbs and flows ...
In the spirit of Islam, and in the rhythm of Rumi.
And, it's mine …
But not completely, and sometimes not at all.
And, it's his …
But not, at least not now.
They say 33 is the year of forever in the ever-after.
It is a time frozen for me.
It is the year of commencement and discovery …
It is the year of growth and truth …
It will forever be the year of my soul's rebirth into its real self,
And, its halving.
And, its aging, as my 33, now 34, shifts halfway into 36.
But as it extends in time, it begins to wither,
Leaves of it falling off its branches, and into an abyss of memory and stolen seasons past
And as each cracks off its stem, and begins to descend,
It rips at me … it hollows paths and channels and grooves that can never heal, but that soothe and calm and reassure.
How love excites and fulfills!
How love nurtures and teaches!
How love creates happiness, and then betrays.
But this love, this soul shall continue …
Just as Rumi's psalms graze my lips today, 741 years after his ink dried and his oration fell silent.
His death was only his renewal -- his betterment, his immortality.
You, my Rumi, are my first and my immortal, my fate and my immensity. You are me in my best version of self, even as you exist separate from me.
You are my favorite scent.
You are my 33 eternal.
< 8
What shall I write of my soul, as it lives in another?
It sings in the melody of an ancient Persian poem, that ebbs and flows ...
In the spirit of Islam, and in the rhythm of Rumi.
And, it's mine …
But not completely, and sometimes not at all.
And, it's his …
But not, at least not now.
They say 33 is the year of forever in the ever-after.
It is a time frozen for me.
It is the year of commencement and discovery …
It is the year of growth and truth …
It will forever be the year of my soul's rebirth into its real self,
And, its halving.
And, its aging, as my 33, now 34, shifts halfway into 36.
But as it extends in time, it begins to wither,
Leaves of it falling off its branches, and into an abyss of memory and stolen seasons past
And as each cracks off its stem, and begins to descend,
It rips at me … it hollows paths and channels and grooves that can never heal, but that soothe and calm and reassure.
How love excites and fulfills!
How love nurtures and teaches!
How love creates happiness, and then betrays.
But this love, this soul shall continue …
Just as Rumi's psalms graze my lips today, 741 years after his ink dried and his oration fell silent.
His death was only his renewal -- his betterment, his immortality.
You, my Rumi, are my first and my immortal, my fate and my immensity. You are me in my best version of self, even as you exist separate from me.
You are my favorite scent.
You are my 33 eternal.
< 8
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