You Worry Too Much by RUMI


You Worry Too Much
Oh soul, you worry too much.
You say, I make you feel dizzy.
Of a little headache then, why do you worry?
You say, I am your antelope.
Of seeing a lion here and there why do you worry?
Oh soul, you worry too much.
You say, I am your moon-faced beauty.
Of the cycles of the moon and passing of the years,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your source of passion, I excite you.
Of playing into the Devils hand, why do you worry?
Oh soul, you worry too much.
Look at yourself, what you have become.
You are now a field of sugar canes, why show that sour face to me?
You have tamed the winged horse of Love.
Of a death of a donkey, why do you worry?
You say that I keep you warm inside.
Then why this cold sigh?
You have gone to the roof of heavens.
Of this world of dust, why do you worry?
Oh soul, you worry too much.
Since you met me, you have become a master singer,
and are now a skilled wrangler, you can untangle any knot.
Of life’s little leash why do you worry?
Your arms are heavy with treasures of all kinds.
About poverty, why do you worry?
You are Joseph, beautiful, strong,
steadfast in your belief, all of Egypt has become drunk
because of you. 
Of those who are blind to your beauty,
and deaf to your songs, why do you worry?
Oh soul, you worry too much.
You say that your housemate is the
Heart of Love, she is your best friend.
You say that you are the heat of the oven of every Lover.
You say that you are the servant of Ali’s magical sword, Zolfaghar.
Of any little dagger why do you still worry?
Oh soul, you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less, why do you worry?
You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
You are the security, the shelter of the spirit of Lovers.
Oh the sultan of sultans, of any other king,
why do you worry?
Be silent, like a fish, and go into that pleasant sea.
You are in deep waters now,
of life’s blazing fire.
Why do you worry?



The Cure in the Pain


The Cure in the Pain

The grief you cry out from 

draws you towards union.
Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog
for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.

There is only so long you can ignore a throbbing, bleeding vein. You’ve got to stop the flow. Unable to find an obvious cure, you begin to see the cure within the pain.

How? Well that’s absolutely relative. For me, the pain shows me how everyone in the world has their own aches and pains. Sorrows and griefs. Sources of absolute misery. And we all have to brave through it. There is no escaping it. No running away. Sometimes, you’ve just got to stand up and face the music.

Sometimes, your grief may create a connection so unique, so strong, you’d be totally caught of guard. And when it does, it never leaves you the same way as it found you.




When you are with everyone but me,
you’re with no one.
When you are with no one but me,
you’re with everyone.
Instead of being so bound up with everyone,
be everyone.
When you become that many, you’re nothing.




Little by little the drunkards congregate, little by little the
wine-worshippers arrive.
The heart-cherishers coquettishly come along the way, the
rosy-cheeked ones are arriving from the garden.
Little by little from the world of being and not-being the
not-beings have departed and the beings are arriving.
All with skirts full of gold as a mine are arriving for the sake
of the destitute.
The lean and sick from the pasturage of love are arriving fat
and hale.
The souls of the pure ones like the rays of the sun are arriving
from such a height to the lowly ones.
Blessed is that garden, where, for the sake of the Mary’s, new
fruits are arriving even in winter.
Their origin is grace, and their return is grace; even from the
garden to the garden they are coming.

Time to go home

Time to go Home

Late and starting to rain, it’s time to go home.
We’ve wandered long enough in empty buildings.
I know it’s tempting to stay and meet those new people.
I know it’s even more sensible to spend the night here with them, but I want to go home.

We’ve seen enough beautiful places with signs on them saying
This is God’s House. That’s seeing the grain like the ants do, without the work of harvesting.
Let’s leave grazing to cows and go where we know what everyone really intends,
where we can walk around without clothes on.

Open Secret by Rumi. Translated by Coleman Barks.