"An invisible bird flies over,
but casts a quick shadow.
What is the body? That shadow of a shadow
of your love, that somehow contains
the entire universe.
A man sleeps heavily,
though something blazes in him like the sun,
like a magnificent fringe sewn up under the helm.
He turns under the covers.
Any image is a lie:
A clear red stone tastes sweet.
You kiss a beautiful mouth, and a key
turns in the lock of your fear.
A spoken sentence sharpens to a fine edge.
Do you think I know what I’m doing?
That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen knows what it’s writing,
or the ball can guess where it’s going next.”
Rumi, Where are We? (13th century)