.
Will the moon understand my loneliness?
Wonder if the stars understand my scars.
When my shadow is covered by the moon, I draw you in my heart.
Graved in loneliness, I call out your name.
Wonder if the stars understand my scars.
When my shadow is covered by the moon, I draw you in my heart.
Graved in loneliness, I call out your name.
The Drunkards and the Tavern ~ Rumi
I'm drunk and you're insane, who's going to lead us home?
How many times did they say,
"Drink just a little, only two or three at most?"
In this city no one I see is conscious;
one is worst off than the next, frenzied and insane.
Dear one, come to the tavern of ruin
and experience the pleasures of the soul.
What happiness can there be apart
from this intimate conversation
with the Beloved, the Soul of souls?
In every corner there are drunkards, arm in arm,
while the Server pours the wine
from a royal decanter to every particle of being.
You belong to the tavern: your income is wine,
and wine is all you ever buy.
Don't give even a second away
to the concerns of the merely sober.
O lute player, are you more drunk, or am I?
In the presence of one as drunk as you, my
magic is a myth.
When I went outside the house,
some drunk approached me,
and in his eyes I saw
hundreds of hidden gardens and sanctuaries.
Like a ship without an anchor,
he rocked this way and that.
Hundreds of intellectuals and wise men
could die from a taste of his yearning.
I asked, "Where are you from?"
He laughed and said, "O soul,
half of me is from Turkestan and half from Farghana.
Half of me is water and mud, half heart and soul;
half of me is the ocean's shore, half is all pearl."
"Be my friend," I pleaded. "I'm one of your family."
"I know the difference between family and outsiders."
I've neither a heart nor a turban,
and here in this house of hangovers
my breast is filled with unspoken words.
Shall I try to explain or not?
Have I lived among the lame for so long
that I've begun to limp myself?
And yet no slap of pain could disturb
a drunkenness like this.
Listen, can you hear a wail
arising from the pillar of grief?
Shams al-Haqq of Tabriz, where are you now,
after all the mischief you've stirred in our hearts?
How many times did they say,
"Drink just a little, only two or three at most?"
In this city no one I see is conscious;
one is worst off than the next, frenzied and insane.
Dear one, come to the tavern of ruin
and experience the pleasures of the soul.
What happiness can there be apart
from this intimate conversation
with the Beloved, the Soul of souls?
In every corner there are drunkards, arm in arm,
while the Server pours the wine
from a royal decanter to every particle of being.
You belong to the tavern: your income is wine,
and wine is all you ever buy.
Don't give even a second away
to the concerns of the merely sober.
O lute player, are you more drunk, or am I?
In the presence of one as drunk as you, my
magic is a myth.
When I went outside the house,
some drunk approached me,
and in his eyes I saw
hundreds of hidden gardens and sanctuaries.
Like a ship without an anchor,
he rocked this way and that.
Hundreds of intellectuals and wise men
could die from a taste of his yearning.
I asked, "Where are you from?"
He laughed and said, "O soul,
half of me is from Turkestan and half from Farghana.
Half of me is water and mud, half heart and soul;
half of me is the ocean's shore, half is all pearl."
"Be my friend," I pleaded. "I'm one of your family."
"I know the difference between family and outsiders."
I've neither a heart nor a turban,
and here in this house of hangovers
my breast is filled with unspoken words.
Shall I try to explain or not?
Have I lived among the lame for so long
that I've begun to limp myself?
And yet no slap of pain could disturb
a drunkenness like this.
Listen, can you hear a wail
arising from the pillar of grief?
Shams al-Haqq of Tabriz, where are you now,
after all the mischief you've stirred in our hearts?
I only see you
사랑은 비처럼 포근했던 봄처럼 나를 꿈꾸게해
눈이 닫는 곳마다 난 너만 보여
천천히 다가가 오늘은 말해줄까 내리는 이 비 타고
내 사랑이 네게 닿았으면 그 입술 빗방울도 나였으면
Love is like rain, like the warm spring - it makes me dream
Everywhere my eyes go, I only see you
Shall I slowly approach you and tell you today?
If only my love could ride this falling rain and reach you
If only the raindrops on your lips was me
oh, my dear
I lied a little. There are things I don’t want to tell you.
How lonely I am today and sick at heart.
How the rain falls steadily and cold on a garden grown greener, more lush and even less tame.
I haven’t done much, I confess, to contain it.
The grapevine, as usual, threatens everything in its path, while the raspberry canes, aggressive and abundant, are clearly out of control.
How lonely I am today and sick at heart.
How the rain falls steadily and cold on a garden grown greener, more lush and even less tame.
I haven’t done much, I confess, to contain it.
The grapevine, as usual, threatens everything in its path, while the raspberry canes, aggressive and abundant, are clearly out of control.
I’m afraid the wildflowers have taken over, being after all the most hardy and tolerant of shade and neglect.
This year the violets and lilies of the valley are rampant, while the phlox are about to emit their shocking pink perfume.
Oh, my dear, had you been here this spring, you would have seen how the bleeding hearts are thriving.
— Madelon Sprengnether, Angel of Duluth
Let me sleep
Life is bitter. All the faces of the years,
Young and old, are gray with travail and with tears.
Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?
In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers,
Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours …
Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years;
Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears;
Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.
In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers,
While we slumber, death approaches through the hours…
Let me sleep.
Young and old, are gray with travail and with tears.
Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?
In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers,
Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours …
Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years;
Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears;
Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.
In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers,
While we slumber, death approaches through the hours…
Let me sleep.
- William Ernest Henley, Life is Bitter
