“The Music We Are” by Rumi

Did you hear that winter is over?
The rayhoon and the carnations cannot control
their laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master over 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 non-

existence, 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 be

imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will.

Poems are rough notations for the music we are.

-Jalal ad-Din Rumi

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