"A Green-Winged Longing" by the great, great 13th Century Persian poet, Rumi. The resonances to today - "Now let silence speak"; "a green-winged longing"; "there's no avoiding pain" - send chills.



This world of two gardens, and both so beautiful.

This world, a street where a funeral is passing.

Let us rise together and leave "this world,"

as water goes bowing down itself to the ocean.

From gardens to the gardener, from grieving

to wedding feast. We tremble like leaves

about to let go. There's no avoiding pain,

or feeling exiled, or the taste of dust.

But also we have a green-winged longing

for the sweetness of the Friend.

These forms are evidence of what

cannot be shown. Here's how it is

to go into that: rain that's been leaking

into the house decides to use the downspout.

The bent bowstring straining at our throats

releases and becomes the arrow!

Mice quivering in fear of the housecat suddenly

change to half-grown lion cubs, afraid of nothing.

So let's begin the journey home,

with love and compassion for guides,

and grace protecting. Let your soul turn

into an empty mirror that passionately wants

to reflect Joseph. Hand him your present.

Now let silence speak, and as that

gift begins, we'll start out.

-- Version by Coleman Barks

(from a translation by John Moyne)