A peaceful face twists with
the poisonous nail of thinking.
A golden spade sinks into
a pile of dung. Suppose you loosen an intellectual knot.
The sack is empty. You've grown
old trying to untie such
tightenings, so loosen a few more,
why knot! There is a big one
fastened at your throat,
the problem of whether you're in
harmony with that which has
no definition. Solve that!
You examine substance and
accidents. You waste
your life making subject
and verb agree. You edit hearsay.
You study artifacts and
think
you know the maker, so
proud of having figured the derivation.
Like a scientist you
collect
data and put facts together
to come to some conclusion.
Mystics arrive at what they
know differently: they lay
a head upon a person's chest
and drift into the answer.
Thinking gives off smoke to
prove the existence of fire. A
mystic sits inside the
burning.
There are wonderful shapes
in rising smoke that imagination
loves to watch. But it's
a mistake to leave the fire
for that filmy sight. Stay
here at the flame's core.
-Rumi
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