Did you destroy my harp, your eminence? There are ten thousand harps still around here.
Since we have fallen into the hands of love, does it really matter if we lose a harp or flute here and there?
If every lyre or harp in the world is confiscated, who cares? There’s many a hidden harp, my friend.
Their pluck and vibration is reaching to the sky, even if it's falling on deaf ears.
Don't cry if every lamp or candle burns out. There’s still the spark of flint and steel.
Songs are the waves on the face of the sea. But no pearl goes floating on the surface of the ocean.
Know that the grace of every wave is a manifestation of the pearl. The reflection of the reflection is glowing within us.
Yes, songs are the branch that yearns for union. But the branch and the root are not equivalent.
Close your mouth and open that aperture of the heart. This is the way to be played by the absolute spirit.
~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-13) of a Rumi ghazal (F-110)
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