If Wheat Sprouts Out of My Grave
If wheat sprouts out of my grave,
the bread you make of it will get you drunk.
The baker and the dough will go insane,
and the oven will recite intoxicating verses.
If you come to visit my grave,
My tomb will appear to dance.
Dear! Don’t come without a tambourine,
for the sad can’t join in God’s celebration.
Though deep in the grave, the chin closed tight,
this mouth still chews the beloved’s opium and sugarplum.
If you tear a piece off that shroud and fasten it round your chest,
a tavern will open up from your soul.
From every direction comes the sound of the harp,
and hue and cry from the drunk.
Every action will perforce give rise to another one.
God has created me from love’s wine;
even if death takes me, I am the same love.
I am intoxication; my origin is the wine of love.
Tell me: what comes from wine except intoxication?
Toward the lofty soul of Shams of Tabriz
my soul is flying, lingering not even a single moment.
Rumi translations courtesy of Reynold A. Nicholson.