Rumi....Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

All day I think about it,
then at night I say it.

Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere,
I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness
began in some other tavern.

When I get back around
to that place,
I'll be completely sober.

Meanwhile, I'm like a bird
from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes?

What is the soul?


I cannot stop asking.


If I could taste
one sip of an answer,
I could break out
of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought me here
will have to take me home.

This poetry,

I never know
what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet
and rarely speak at all.
RUMI