And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in - Yes

–Omar Khayyam


Sunday, September 25, 2016

beautiful





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You suppose that you are the lock on the door
But you are the key that opens it

It’s too bad that you want to be someone else

You don’t see your own face, your own beauty
Yet, no face is more beautiful than yours.


—Rumi


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dear one





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Your cure is in you, but you are unaware,
And your illness is from you, but you do not see.


And you consider yourself to be a small mass
While within you lies the greatest world.


And you are the clear book
Whose letters make manifest the hidden.



–Amīr al-Mu’mineen, Imam Ali (ع)




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you are that





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Both anatomy and astronomy describe you.

–Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj



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you are beautiful





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You are flawed, you are stuck in old patterns,
you become carried away with yourself.
Indeed you are quite impossible in many ways.

And still, you are beautiful beyond measure.


–John Welwood


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dropping keys





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The small person
Builds cages for everyone
She
Sees.

Instead, the sage,
Who needs to duck her head,
When the moon is low,
Can be found dropping keys, all night long
For the beautiful,
Rowdy,
Prisoners.


–Hafiz



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Saturday, September 17, 2016

the rose





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I dreamt I came to a magnificent city
whose palace was the rose, rose.
The crown and throne of the great sultan,
his garden and chambers
were the rose, rose.
Here they buy and sell but roses
and the roses are the scales they use,
Weighing roses with more roses,
the marketplace and bazaar
are all roses, rose.

The white rose and the red rose
grew coupled in one garden.
Their faces turn as one toward the thorn.
Both thorn and blossom
are the rose, rose.

Soil is the rose and stone is the rose,
withered is the rose, fresh is the rose.
Within the Lord's private gardens
both slender cypress and old maple
are the rose, rose.
The rose is turning the waterwheel
and gets ground between the stones.
The wheel turns round as the water flows.
Its power and its stillness
are the rose, rose.

From the rose a tent appears
filled with an offering of everything.
Its gatekeepers are the holy prophets.
The bread and the wine they pour
are the rose, rose.

Oh Ummi Sinan, heed the mystery
of the sorrow of nightingale and rose.
Every cry of the forlorn nightingale
is for the rose, the rose.


–Ummi Sinan
(16th Century)
Jennifer Ferraro and Latif Bolat version




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