'Lament Of The Reed'
-Poems Of Rumi
Pėrkthyer dhe Recituar nga Dr. S.H.Nasr.
'Lament Of The Reed'
-Poems Of Rumi
Pėrkthyer dhe Recituar nga Dr. S.H.Nasr.
Rumi
Let me free so that like the Sun
I shall wear a robe of fire,
And within that fire like a Sun to adorn the world!
Me ler te lire ne vend qe si Dielli
te vesh nje robe te zjarrte,
dhe perbrenda atij zjarri si nje Diell te zbukuroj boten!
Shum jam i kenaquar nga inciativa per hapjen e kesaj teme. Nje kritik.. edhe pse.. Mevlana Rumi ka shkruar ne gjuhen farsi(persishten)... ai poashtu njihet si Turk, sepse ka jetuar ne Turqi. Lum ai qe e kupton filozofin e Rumit.
Nice insanlar gördüm,üzerinde elbisesi yok.
Nice elbiseler gördüm, iēinde insan yok.
Sa njerėz kam parė, pa rroba pėrmbi.
Edhe shumė rroba, nė to s'kish njeri.
Mevlana Xhelaleddin Rumi
Mevlana (Rumi) ka ardhur ne Konja (Turqi), ai nuk eshte turk. Ai ka lindur ne qytetin Belh, i cili ndodhet ne Veriun e Afganistanit te sotshem, ne kufi me Uzbekistanin.Postuar mė parė nga Arsimi2005
21
The heart is like a grain of corn, we are like a mill; how does
the mill know why this turning?
The body is like a stone, and the water its thoughts; the stone
says, "The water knows what is toward."
The water says, "Ask the miller, for it was he who flung this
water down."
The miller says to you, "Bread-eater, if this does not turn, how
shall the crumb-broth be?"
Much business is in the making; silence, ask God, that He may
tell you.
Source:
Mystical Poems of Rumi 1
First Selection, Poems 1-200
Translated by: A. J. Arberry
181
Like a mirror my soul displays secrets; I am able not to speak,
but I am unable not to know.
I have become a fugitive from the body, fearful as to the
spirit; I swear I know not --- I belong neither to this nor to that.
Seeker, to catch a scent is the condition of dying; look not
upon me as living, for I am not so.
Look not on my crookedness, but behold this straight word; my
talk is an arrow, and I am as a bow.
This gourdlike head on top of me, and this dervish habit of my
body --- whom am I like, whom am I like in this market of the
world?
Then this gourd on my head, full of liquor --- I keep it upside
down, yet I let not a drop trickle from it.
And even if I do let trickle, do you behold the power of God,
that in exchange for that drop I gather pearls from the sea.
My eyes like a cloud gather pearls from that sea; this cloud of
my spirit rises to the heaven of fidelity.
I rain in the presence of Shams al-Haqq-i Tabriz, that lilies
may grow in the form of my tongue.
Source:
Mystical Poems of Rumi 1
First Selection, Poems 1-200
Translated by: A. J. Arberry
A egziston varri i Rumit ne konja? E di qe ne Turqi vdiq mbasi shkoi atje te takonte Shamsin, is cili u be mesuesi, shoku dhe miku me i ngushte i Rumit, per te cilin ai ka shkruajtur shume.
Principle, cilin edicion ke?
Kush te tha qe esht turk more xen... une thash njihet si turk..po pse kaq qejf paskeni te hyni ne argumente, ta haj dreqi ta haj.
Sometimes I Forget Completely
Sometimes I forget completely
shat companionship is,
Unconscious and insane, I spill sad
energy everywhere. My story
gets told in various ways: romance,
a dirty joke, a war, a vacancy
Divide up my forgetfulness to any number,
it will go around.
These dark suggestions that I follow,
are they part of some plan?
Friends, be careful. Don't come near me
out of curiosity, or sympathy
---Rumi
Where are we?
An invisible bird flies over,
but casts a quick shadow.
What is the body? That shadow of a shadow
of your love, that somehow contains
the entire universe
A man sleeps heavily,
though something blazes in him like the sun,
like a magnificent fringe sewn up under the hem.
He turs under the covers..
Any image is a lie:
A clear red stone tastes sweet.
You kiss a beautiful mouth, and a key
turns in the lock of your fear.
A spoken sentence sharpens to a fine edge.
A mother dove looks for her nest,
asking where, ku? Where, ku?
Where the lion lies down.
Where any man or woman goes to cry.
Where the sick go when they hope to get well.
Where a wind lifts that helps with winnowing
and, the same moment, sends a ship on its way.
Where anyone says Only God Is Real.
Ya Hu! Where beyond where.
A bright weaver's shuttle flashes back and forth,
east-west, Where are we? Ma ku? Maku
as it weaves with the asking.
The friend comes into my body
looking for the center, unable
to find it, draws a blade,
strikes anywhere
There is a light seed grain inside,
You fill it with yourself, or it dies.
I'm caught in this curling energy! Your hair!
whoever's calm and sensible is insane!
Do you think I know what I'm doing?
That for one breath of half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen knows what it's writing,
or the ball can guess where it's going next.
---Rumi
Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga anja bojku : 08-03-2005 mė 05:32
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