Thread by @exceedhergrasp1

Acts of Helplessness, by Rumi

Here are the miracle-signs you want: that
you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking,
that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets dark,
your neck thin as a spindle, that what you give away

https://twitter.com/thane_black/status/1457396742652153861

is all you won, that you sacrifice belongings,
sleep, health, your head, that you often
sit down in a fire like aloes wood, and often go out
to meet a blade like a battered helmet.
When acts of helplessness become habitual,
those are the *signs*.

But you run back and forth listening for unusual events,
peering into faces of travellers.
“Why are you looking at me like a madman?”
*I have lost a friend. Please forgive me.*
Searching like that does not fail.
There will come a rider who holds you close.

You faint and gibber. The uninitiated say, “He’s faking.”
How could they know?
Water washes over a beached fish, the water
of those signs I just mentioned.
Excuse my wandering.
How can one be orderly with this?

It’s like counting leaves in the garden,
along with the song-notes of partridges,
and crows.
Sometimes organization
and computation become absurd.

(I love Rumi) <3