I found the book I must’ve opened some months ago that wasn’t at the store last week; it wasn’t there but I see it in my above photo, so I know what to look for…I think it was Rumi: The Book of Love. 🙏💕📖
…from another book, a poem by Rumi
…The miracle-signs: you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking, that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets dark… that you often sit down in a fire like aloes wood, and often go out to meet a blade like a battered helmet, and acts of helplessness like these among them all become habitual… …And you run back and forth listening for unusual events, peering into the faces of travelers: “Why are you looking at me like a madman?” I have lost a friend. Please forgive me…
…Excuse my wandering. How can one be orderly with this? It’s like counting all the leaves in the garden, along with all the music notes of the partridges and the crows. At times like this, organization and computation become absurd.
translated from original Persian unknown A few minor edits and excerpts in English by me