Rumi
Rumi
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, Mawlānā/Mevlânâ, Mevlevî/Mawlawī, and more popularly simply as Rumi, was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. Rumi's influence transcends national borders and ethnic divisions: Iranians, Tajiks, Turks, Greeks, Pashtuns, other Central Asian Muslims, and the Muslims of South Asia have greatly appreciated his spiritual legacy for the past seven centuries. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages and transposed into...
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth30 September 1207
Don't regret what's happened. If it's in the past, LET IT GO. Don't even remember it!
Someone who goes with a half a loaf of bread to a small place that fits like a nest around him, someone who wants no more, who is not himself longed for by anyone else. He is a letter to everyone. You open it. It says, Live.
I have blossomed so much, I am the envy of the gardens.
I said: what about my eyes? God said: Keep them on the road. I said: what about my passion? God said: Keep it burning. I said: what about my heart? God said: Tell me what you hold inside it? I said: pain and sorrow? He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
I am so small I can hardly be seen. How can this great love be inside me? Look at your eyes. They are small, but they see enormous things.
You lack a foot to travel? Then journey into yourself - that leads to transformation of dust into pure gold.
The branch might seem like the fruit's origin: In fact, the branch exist because of the fruit.
Let us put away our blinders and answer the call to Joy.
Each and every part of the world is a snare for the fool and a means of deliverance for the wise.
Love, the supreme musician, is always playing in our souls
Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times, but be faithful now and endure, pale lover.
The ocean of the body crashes against the ocean of the heart. Between them is a barrier they cannot cross.
And even if this world burns up hidden harps will still play here.
If these poems repeat themselves, then so does Spring.