Mustafa Rushan

“To write, you have to want something to survive you.”
― Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child

“ON THE DAY I DIE

On the day I die, when I'm being carried
toward the grave, don't weep. Don't say,

He's gone! He's gone. Death has nothing to do with going away. The sun sets and

the moon sets, but they're not gone.
Death is a coming together. The tomb

looks like a prison, but it's really
release into union. The human seed goes

down in the ground like a bucket into
the well where Joseph is. It grows and

comes up full of some unimagined beauty.
Your mouth closes here, and immediately

opens with a shout of joy there.

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One who does what the Friend wants done
will never need a friend.

There's a bankruptcy that's pure gain.
The moon stays bright when it
doesn't avoid the night.

A rose's rarest essence
lives in the thorn.

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Childhood, youth, and maturity,
and now old age.

Every guest agrees to stay
three days, no more.

Master, you told me to
remind you. Time to go.

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The angel of death arrives,
and I spring joyfully up.

No one knows what comes over me
when I and that messenger speak!

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When you come back inside my chest no matter how far I've wandered off,
I look around and see the way.

At the end of my life, with just one breath left, if you come then, I'll sit up and sing.

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Last night things flowed between us
that cannot now be said or written.

Only as I'm being carried out
and down the road, as the folds of my shroud open in the wind,

will anyone be able to read, as on
the petal-pages of a turning bud,
what passed through us last night.

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I placed one foot on the wide plain
of death, and some grand
immensity sounded on the emptiness.

I have felt nothing ever
like the wild wonder of that moment.

Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the cure.
The only rule is, Suffer the pain.

Your desire must be disciplined,
and what you want to happen
in time, sacrificed.”
― Rumi, The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems

“My father used to say the world turned wrong when we started separating ourselves from the wild, when we stopped being one with the rest of nature, and sat apart.”
― Charlotte McConaghy, Once There Were Wolves

“Xalça sıx vurulmuş ilmələrdən ibarət olur.
Zaman da xalçaya bənzərdir, yalnız bu xalçaya salınmış ilmələr illərdən əmələ gəlib. Onun adi xalçalardan digər bir fərqi də nəhayətsizliyidir; ilmələri harada başlayır, harada bitir, bilən bir kəs tapılmaz.”
― Fuad Isayev, Od adamların nəğməsi