I see my beauty in you,
I become a mirror
that cannot close its eyes to your longing.
My eyes wet with yours in the early light.
My mind every moment giving birth,
always conceiving, always in the ninth month,
always the come-point.
How do I stand this?
We become these words we say,
a wailing sound moving out into the air.
These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere,
how does your face contain them?
I am a fly in your honey, then closer,
a moth caught in the flame's allure,
then empty sky stretched out in homage.
Today is Rumi's birthday, b. September 30, 1207, d. December 17, 1273