Ghazal: At Rumi’s Tomb



A sky shaped like a face – no it can’t be that
A wingéd horse on fire in the middle of the air – no it can’t be that

A sound of bells that burns from the feet to the heart
A whisper of hidden words falling from the top of a tree – no it can’t be that

A look across centuries that today is enshrouded in the world
The touch of a child’s hand who already knows the secret – no it can’t be that

A bridge of light in all the usual places
A bird that expands to embrace every living heart – no it can’t be that

An eye that beholds the cave where the Prophet became Messenger
A sing-song voice speaking perfect rhyming sentences – no it can’t be that

Hello before you arrive and Hello again before you get up to go
A kiss across green water that reflects both sun and moon – no it can’t be that

A call from within Rumi’s shirt so old its threads look like rain
A light that slides up a corner of the tomb and fills the body – no it can’t be that

What is it then? Is there any answer?
Is it possible to say? – no it can’t be that

Ameen was gone for a moment but something remained
There’s only a trace left in the air from all of us – no it can’t be that

Mevlana – we certainly had a magnificent celebration
Does it need to end? – no – please – it can’t be that

5/7/2002 (from The Flame of Transformation Turns to Light / 99 Ghazals Written in English)
(written at Rumi’s tekke in Konya)

About danielabdalhayymoore

Poet, artist, collagist, publisher, hoping to save a little bit of the world through ecstatic utterance... ordered in balanced lines and unpremeditated images...
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3 Responses to Ghazal: At Rumi’s Tomb

  1. Irving says:

    A lovely ghazal, dear Brother 🙂 A child’s hand indeed. Yes, it can be that.

    Ya Haqq!


  2. Insh’allah I’ll have the chance to visit there someday.


  3. RestNtide says:

    I think that Mawlana Rumi (RA) must have been singing to you:

    Tanbôûr chô tan tanan bar-Ârad be-navâ,
    Zanjîr dar-ân shavad del-è bî-sar-ô pâ.

    Zîrâ ke nahân dar zeh-ash Âvaz-è kasî-st,
    Mîghûyad ke-y khasteh-è hamrâh bîyâ.

    As the tabor’s throb
    Rises on the air,
    My hapless heart
    Runs its prisoner.

    A hidden voice
    From the beating drum
    Cries, ‘O weary soul,
    Here the road is: come!’

    What a lovely song you crafted in return!


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