Rumi, the Cherubim and the Acre of Tears

Rumi, the Cherubim and the Acre of Tears
I planted an acre of tears,
From seeds of luminous light
Trickling from my eyes,
Bright as day, and
Dark as the night
Created for
Love’s Delight.

I planted a row of roses,
And count as custodian
The passionate Moses,
For it was he who
Admonished God
To relent and give
Ease to the
Nation of the Beloved.

I planted an orchard of friends
But saw myself leaving them behind.
I dined with the Cherubim that night
But declined the wine.

I didn’t want to be rude
But I was worried,
For I can hear Rumi knocking
On the door, asking to be let in.

“Confound you, Taufiq!”
I can hear him yelling,
“It’s raining angels out here.
Open the door before I am drenched
In this heavenly downpour!”

In the truest sense of the word, I am no poet. I wonder if Rumi was ever asked in his lifetime whether he thinks himself a poet. You can ask him now if you want. I have no doubt, he would find a way to get his reply passed on to you. Perhaps a passing Cherubim would agree to take his message.

THE WORLD IS A STAGE said Shakespear. I was being rather optimistic in the above sketch. I do not think Rumi will give up so easily. For Love is not about giving up. Love is about trying your darn best even when the chips appear down. Love is about not giving up on your friend, even when he has given up on himself. For you see, everything is fated. Fate is like a script to a play. You are given by God your daily script (good day, bad day, pay day, Friday, appalling day, bad hair day, wedding day…) and you have absolutely no choice in the matter. But how you read your lines is entirely up to you, don’t you agree?

SAY YOUR LINES WELL. So say your lines with love and submission, my friends. At times we play the hero, and sometimes we would play the victim or damsel-in-distress. At other times we are just extras walking in and out of the scene. And for some stressful occasions, we must act the villain – the father who refuses to buy a toy for his son, a boss who must cut overtime, or a class teacher who must send her student to the disciplinary master. But villain or hero, extra or superstar, it is our call how we act out our script.

THE SECRET GIFT. If you can remember the preceding paragraph, sunshine – then the world will become nothing but a plaything in your hand. And happiness and sadness becomes mere roles which you – the consummate artist, can act out, as and when you please, and as how you desire. And that is the Secret Happiness of Choices - a gift granted by God our Creator to all Mankind and Djinns, flowing from His Incalculable Wisdom and Love for His creation.


DEAR OLD RUMI. The new prose began as a stream-of-consciousness thingy which is not really my style. But I am glad that I have come to a bright happy conclusion. That is often the case when I recall Rumi’s name.

Have a happy day, pet.

Pax Taufiqa.