Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you're perfectly free.
the dancers hear the tambourine inside them,
as a wave turns the foam on its very top, begin.
Maybe you don't hear that tambourine,
all the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head
that listen mostly to lies
and cynical jokes.
There are other things to hear and see
dance, music and a brilliant city inside the soul.
The Essential Rumi,
translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne