Someone comes in from outside saying,
Do not play music just for yourselves.
Now we are tearing up the house like a drum,
collapsing walls with our pounding.
We hear a voice from the sky
calling the lovers and the odd, lost people.
We scatter lives. We break what holds us,
each one a blacksmith heating iron
and walking to the anvil. We blow on the inner fire.
With each striking we change.
(in Rumi: The Big Red Book,
translated by Coleman Barks)
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