We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.
The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and if the whole world’s harp
should burn up,
there will still be hidden music
playing, playing.
This singing art
is sea foam.
The graceful movements
come from a pearl
somewhere
on the ocean floor.
Poems reach up like spindrift
and the edge of driftwood
along the beach
wanting, wanting.
They derive from a slow
and powerful root
that we cannot see.
Stop the words now.
Open the window
in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly
in and out!
Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi
