The Story of My Life

i was ready to tell the story of my life
but the ripple of tears and the agony of my heart
wouldn't let me

i began to stutter saying a word here and there
and all along i felt as tender as a crystal
ready to be shattered

in this stormy sea we call life all the big ships

come apart board by board

how can i survive riding a lonely little boat

with no oars and no arms

my boat did finally break by the waves

and i broke free as i tied myself to a single board

though the panic is gone i am now offended

why should i be so helpless rising with one wave

and falling with the next

i don't know if i am nonexistence

while i exist  but i know for sure

when i am i am not

but

when i am not then i am

now how can i be a skeptic about the

resurrection and coming to life again

since in this world

i have many times like my own imagination

died and been born again

that is why after a long agonizing life

as a hunter

i finally let go and got hunted down and became free

Rumi was born on 30 September 1207 in the province of Balkh in the district of Wakhsh in Khorasan (now in modern Afghanistan/Tajikistan). He died on 17 December 1273 in Konya in Seljuqid Rum (now modern Turkey).

Rumi was a Sufi and a great scholar of the Qu’ran his appeal reaches across religious and social divisions.

Rumi actually to admit one's vulnerability and even helplessness before this Love as he wrote :

The beauty of the heart is the lasting beauty:
its lips give to drink of the water of life.

Truly it is the water, that which pours,
and the one who drinks.

All three become one when your talisman is shattered.
That oneness you can't know by reasoning

Rumi’s popularity has gone beyond national and ethnic borders. He is considered to be one of the classical poets, by the speakers of Persian language in Iran, Afghanistan and Tajikistan. 

Rumi writes: "Do thou hear the name of every thing from the knower? Hear the inmost meaning of the mystery of He That Taught the Names. 

With us, the name of every thing is its outward appearance, with the Creator, the name of every thing is its inward reality." 

He Wrote :

Love’s way becomes a pen sometimes writing g-sounds like gold or r-sounds
like tomorrow in different calligraphy  styles sliding by, darkening the paper

Now it’s held upside down, now besidethe head, now down and on to something else, figuring. 

One sentence saves an illustrious man from disaster, but fame does not matter to the split tongue of a pen. 
Hippocrates knows how the cure must go.

His pen does not. This one, I am calling pen, or sometimes flag, has no mind. You, the pen, are most sanely insane.

You cannot be spoken of rationally.

Opposites are drawn into your presence but not to be resolved. You are not whole
or ever complete.

You are the wonder without willpower going where you want.” 

For many years, he had a great influence on Turkish literature.

Syafuan Gani

Doha, Qatar