The grapes of my body can only become wine
After the winemaker tramples me.
I surrender my spirit like grapes to his trampling
So my inmost heart can blaze and dance with joy.
Although the grapes go on weeping blood and sobbing
"I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty"
The trampler stuffs cotton in His ears:
"I am not working in ignorance
You can deny me if you want, you have every excuse,
But it is I who am the Master of this Work.
And when, through my Passion, you reach perfection,
You will never be done praising my name."
Rumi (not sure who the translator was; this poem came to me in an email without citation -- maybe Coleman Barks??)
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