“Because I cannot sleep
I make music at night.
I am troubled by the one
whose face has the color of spring flowers.
I have neither sleep nor patience,
neither a good reputation nor disgrace.
A thousand robes of wisdom are gone.”
Rumi, “Ode 314” (transl. by C Barks and J Moyne)
Although ancient (mid-13th C. CE) there is a timelessness about Rumi’s poetry. The verse could be as comfortably from the 18thC. or written last week. That is the essence of Rumi’s creations. He found the universality in his own emotions, filtering them through the vista of the world at large. I find it comforting to see so much commonality of feeling across cultures and across time.