Who Says Words with My Mouth

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I
supposed to be doing? I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I am sure of that
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile, I'm like a bird
from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off, but

who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who look out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking. If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it. When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
Shams Tabriz, if you would show your face to me again,
I could flee the imposition of this life.

Rumi