Listen to the flute and understand
What she sings is always farewell pain.
Since they cut me out of my reeds,
She sings, I sing what the people suffered.
My marrow hollowed, carved, I surrender it,
Until I am only the voice of longing.
For he who is expelled from his source,
Wants nothing but the moment of returning home.
Mystic Rumi (Translated by Mrs Annemarie Schimmel)
Ink on paper