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The drunkards are rolling in slowly, those who hold to wine are approaching.
The lovers come, singing, from the garden, the ones with brilliant eyes.
The I-don't-want-to-lives are leaving, and the I-want-to-lives are arriving
They have gold sewn into their clothes, sewn in for those who have none.
Those with ribs showing who have been grazing in the old pasture of love
are turning up fat and frisky.
The souls of pure teachers are arriving like rays of sunlight
from so far up to the ground-huggers.
How marvellous is that garden, where apples and pears, both for the sake of
the two Marys,
are arriving even in winter.
Those apples grow from the Gift, and sink back into the Gift.
It must be that they are coming from the garden to the garden,
--Rumi (translated by Robert Bly)
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