My poems resemble the bread of Egypt—one night
Passes over it, and you can’t eat it any more.
So gobble them down now, while they’re still fresh,
Before the dust of the world settles on them.
Where a poem belongs is here, in the warmth of the chest;
Out in the world it dies of cold.
You’ve seen a fish—put him on dry land,
He quivers for a few minutes, and then is still.
And even if you eat my poems while they’re still fresh,
You still have to bring forward many images yourself.
Actually, friend, what you’re eating is your own imagination.
These poems are not just some old sayings and saws.
Wow, that flower is heart-breakingly beautiful, and the poem too!!!
Thanks OM. I switched out the flower for another photo but will publish it again soon. I agree — so beautiful.
OMG. I will send you by regular email a comparable photo, amazingly similar.
Glad I copied the flower before it disappeared! So I could contemplate it.
Now Rumi’s got me wondering about Egyptian bread. Why is it inedible after a single day??? LOL!!!