all day i think about it, then at night i say it.where did i come from, and what am i supposed to be…
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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 have no idea.
my soul is from elsewhere, i’m 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’ll be completely sober. meanwhile,
i’m 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 didn’t come here of my own accord, and i can’t leave that way.
whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.

this poetry. i never know what i’m going to say.
i don’t plan it.
when i’m outside the saying of it,
i get very quiet and rarely speak at all.


rumi