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