A New Rule

It is the rule with drunkards to fall upon each other, to quarrel, become violent, and make a scene. The lover is even worse than a drunkard. I will tell you what love is: to enter a mine of gold. And what is that gold? The lover is a king above all kings, unafraid of death, not at all interested in a golden crown. The dervish has a pearl concealed under his patched cloak. Why should he go begging door to door? Last night that moon came along, drunk, dropping clothes in the street. “Get up,” I told my heart, “Give the soul a glass of wine. The moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden, to taste sugar with the soul-parrot.” I have fallen, with my heart shattered – where else but on your path? And I broke your bowl, drunk, my idol, so drunk, don’t let me be harmed, take my hand. A new rule, a new law has been born: break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower.