As I was writing
I heard a strong, hopeful voice
“Teach me please to write the lines
As beautiful as Rumi’s poetry”
I summoned a passing wind
And chose a piece of the swirling breeze
To put in his palm
He opened his palm
And gazed into the emptiness
The wind was invisible in its abundance
“Teach me please to write a poetry”
Don’t you see? The wind is just a breeze…
Silent and empty
I picked another blade of breeze
And I put it inside his palm… once again
“I can’t whittle my poetry, pencil
With a clenched fist”
You uttered in anger
“You are my teacher!
Teach me how to write a poetry like you!”
aHe opened his palm once more
The wind swirled and disappeared
“Young man!…
The wind is abundance
But its invisible
And once you felt its existence in your hand
Write then…
Write about the wind that wandered away
But had once danced gracefully
In your palm”