2 poems. The first is by Jelaluddin Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks); the second is by Kabir (in a version by Robert Bly).
Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here?
Round-faced troublemaker, quick to find a joke, slow
to be serious. Red shirt,
perfect coordination, sly,
strong muscles, with things always in his pocket: reed flute,
ivory pick, polished and ready for his talent.
You know that one.
Have you heard stories about him?
Pharaoh and the whole Egyptian world
collapsed for such a Joseph.
I'd gladly spend years getting word
of him, even third or fourth-hand.
Have you heard the music that no fingers enter into?
Far inside the house
What is the sense of leaving your house?
Suppose you scrub your ethical skin until it shines,
but inside there is no music,
Mohammed's son pores over words, and points out this
but if his chest is not soaked dark with love,
The Yogi comes along in his famous orange.
But if inside he is colorless, then what?
Kabir says: Every instant that the sun is risen,
if I stand in the temple, or on a balcony,
in the hot fields, or in a walled garden,
my own Lord is making love with me.
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