Mewlana Rumi Poems

Bring Wine Bring wine, for I am suffering crop sickness from the vintage; God has seized me, and I am thus held fast. By love’s soul, bring me a cup of wine that is the envy of the sun, for I care aught but love. Bring that which if I were to call it “soul” would be a shame, for the reason that I am pained in the head because of the soul. Bring that whose name is not contained in this mouth, through which the fissures of my speech split asunder. Bring that which, when it is not present, I am stupid and ignorant, but when I am with it, I am the king of the subtle and crafty ones. Bring that which, the moment it is void of my head, I become black and dark, you might say I am of the infidels. Bring that which delivers out of this “bring” and “do not bring”; bring quickly, and repel me not, saying, “Whence shall I bring it?” Bring, and deliver the roof of the heavens through the long night from my abundant smoke and lamentations. Bring that which after my death, even out of my dust, will restore me to speech