/ Curiosity is like drinking without satisfaction of thirstt. The moment I ask a question it turns out to be a corpse
#divinelove #sufi #sufipoem #rumi #faridudinattar #dervish #philosophicalpoem #immanuellkant #selbstsetzungslehre #selfsittingthinking #liarparadox #poetry #poem
Selfsittinglying*
I am not a dervish whirling
round and round
I am not the motion of rotation
Somehow I am the turning itself
When did I set this imaginary focus?
I forgot at all
Say the diameter is smaller than a point
Say it is the entire universe
Hypnotized by the swirl of desires
I am not a passionflower but the craving itself
Which compass can draw me?
What exists always appears entrapped
No escape from restrains, moaning is useless
for I am the molding itself
and for the black hole embedded in the subject
a gap is sitting in each of my sentences
I am not matter rather I need matter to be
I will dissolve instantly if I lose the objects in attention
Yet I am not scattered mist, nor a sacred mute stone
I can’t reveal merely what I am made of
Which jeweler can assess me?
I am not a bridge over time
instead the flowing.
I am not breath, except the blowing
I am not fire
I never was inflammable
I am no more than the burning itself
Wise men talk about the One
I know I am not an aggregate of many
No cement builds up emptiness
No One can add void on void
I feel incomplete in this weird part-whole relation
I am not a bundle of straws, but the bonding itself.
Which number can count me?
Laws of nature await my attempts of violation
once I remember, I am the bending itself
I fell from heaven according to a notorious tale
I wonder if this falling apart
would ever come to an end
I descend and descend
hence I got sure
I am bottomless descending
I am not a pilgrim, nor a victim, just an exile
as long as home is a place
holding the pieces that have gone astray
I am the yearning, I am the longing itself
Which scale can measure me?
Curiosity is like drinking without satisfaction of thirst
The moment I ask a question
it turns out to be a corpse
Say I am creating by thinking
Say I am giving birth in love
In fact no act reveals the mystery
I am neither the myth of God
nor a loudmouth narrator
at most I am the telling itself
My master believes that the only
real thing is the Word
Did he forget the liar paradox
or I got him wrong?
All my words are lies without any exclusion
I regret, but I am the lying itself
Which truth can save me?
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