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Rumi I, You, He, She, We

Coleman Barks reciting Rumi: I, You, He, She, We I, You, He, She, We I, You, He, She, We In the garden of mystic lovers, I,. You, He, She, We These are not true distinctions I, You, He, She,We There's part of us that's like an itch Call it the animal soul A foolishness that when we're in it We make hundreds of others around us itchy And there is an intelligent soul With another desire more like sweet basil Or the feel of a breeze Listen and be thankful even for scolding That comes from the intelligent soul It flows out closer to where you flowed out But that itchiness wants to put food in their mouths That will make us sick Feverish with the after-taste of kissing a donkey's rump It's like blackening your robe against the kettle Without being anywhere near a table of companionship The truth of being human is an empty table Made of soul intelligence Gradually reduce what you give your animal soul The bread that after all overflows from sun light The animal soul itself spilled out And sprouted from the other Taste more often what nourishes your clear light And you'll have less use for the smoky oven You'll bury that baking equipment in the ground