Cinta Saya Rumi Poem by Robert Preston

How to explain, when you ask me, “Why poetry? ”
Might as well ask yourself such personal questions;
like, “Why’s man imbued with aimless idolatry?
How can I know the rhythm of unheard tones? ”

Might as well ask yourself such personal questions
—for music that wells within I usually say
“How can I know the rhythm of unheard tones? ”
The response it’s still on its gamboling way.

For music that wells within I usually say
as little as I can say; I’d rather dwell on it.
The response it’s still on its gamboling way
without promising that it will ever come visit.

As little as I can say I’d rather dwell on it.
All of your questions of why and how, I hear.
Without promising that it will ever come visit,
the answer the questioning itself bears.

All of your questions of why and how I hear,
like, “Why’s man imbued with aimless idolatry? ”
The answer the questioning itself bears.
How to explain, when you ask me, “Why poetry? ”