The Middle East is historically a hotbed of all kinds of trouble, and I think in the U.S., even leaving aside Dubya’s recent schtick, there’s a lot of sort’ve undirected hostility at the entire region, which runs the gamut between thinly-veiled racism, and an exasperated “For the love of god, can’t you people just get along!?”

However, out’ve that region, in addition to such niceties as the zero, astronomy, and a lot of the roots of Western civilization, came what I think is some of the finest poetry ever written, the works of the dervish Rumi, one of which I tripped over more or less at random a few hours ago, which caused me to renew my love-affair with the man’s words.

You have said what you are.
I am what I am.
Your actions in my head,
my head here in my hands
with something circling inside.
I have no name
for what circles
so perfectly.

I could go on and on, but I won’t, except to say that everybody owes themselves a read through the works of Rumi, either on-line or if you happen to pick up the spectacular ‘Unseen Rain’ collection. My parents read his poetry at their wedding. He was one of the greats, and he could do it in a dozen lines or less, too.

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