Poems from Rumi

A few weeks back, in the cozy corner of our home, I shared a mesmerizing Rumi poem with my beloved daughter, Darya. The words flowed like a river of emotions, and as I read, she didn’t just listen—she danced to the rhythm of the verses. It was an enchanting moment, where poetry met movement, and our souls intertwined with the eloquence of Rumi’s words. Allow me to take you to that enchanting world through the lines of this poem:

آمد بهار جان‌ها ای شاخ تر به رقص آ چون یوسف اندرآمد مصر و شکر به رقص آ
ای شاه عشق پرور مانند شیر مادر ای شیرجوش دررو جان پدر به رقص آ
چوگان زلف دیدی چون گوی دررسیدی از پا و سر بریدی بی‌پا و سر به رقص آ
تیغی به دست خونی آمد مرا که چونی گفتم بیا که خیر است گفتا نه شر به رقص آ
از عشق تاجداران در چرخ او چو باران آن جا قبا چه باشد ای خوش کمر به رقص آ
ای مست هست گشته بر تو فنا نبشته رقعه فنا رسیده بهر سفر به رقص آ
در دست جام باده آمد بتم پیاده گر نیستی تو ماده زان شاه نر به رقص آ
پایان جنگ آمد آواز چنگ آمد یوسف ز چاه آمد ای بی‌هنر به رقص آ
تا چند وعده باشد وین سر به سجده باشد هجرم ببرده باشد دنگ و اثر به رقص آ
کی باشد آن زمانی گوید مرا فلانی کای بی‌خبر فنا شو ای باخبر به رقص آ
طاووس ما درآید وان رنگ‌ها برآید با مرغ جان سراید بی‌بال و پر به رقص آ
کور و کران عالم دید از مسیح مرهم گفته مسیح مریم کای کور و کر به رقص آ
مخدوم شمس دین است تبریز رشک چین است اندر بهار حسنش شاخ و شجر به رقص آ
Spring has come, O soul, dance with joy,
Like Joseph who came to Egypt, dance with thanks.
O nurturer of love, like a mother lion,
O bubbling fountain, dance with your father’s soul.
When you saw the ball of hair, like a rolling sphere,
You cut off your head and feet, yet still, dance.
With a sword in hand, you came, covered in blood,
I said, “Come, for it is good,” you said, “No, it’s bad,” yet still, dance.
From the love of kings, in His realm like rain,
What does a robe matter there, O charming one, dance.
O intoxicated one, you have become non-existent,
The scroll of non-existence has reached for the journey, dance.
With a cup of wine in hand, the idol came on foot,
If you are not material, from that male lion, dance.
The end of the war came, the sound of the harp came,
Joseph came out of the well, O inexperienced one, dance.
How long will you make promises, and this head bowed in prostration,
My absence has been long, yet there is still an effect, dance.
When will that time come when someone says to me,
“O you unaware one, become non-existent,” O informed one, dance.
Our peacock will come, and those colors will appear,
With the bird of the soul’s serenade, wingless and featherless, dance.
The blind and deaf of the world saw, thanks to the Messiah’s ointment,
Mary, the Messiah, said, “O blind and deaf one, dance.”
The Sun of Religion is our Master, Tabriz, the envy of China,
In the spring of His beauty, branch and tree, dance.