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 do not know. My soul is from elsewhere. I am 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 will be completely sober. Meanwhile, I am 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 did not come here of my own accord, and I cannot leave that way. Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I am going to say. I don’t plan it. When I am outside the saying of it. I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
Shams Tabriz, if you would show your face to me again, I could flee the imposition of this life.