Translating Rumi

not through the tongue and its wind-spray or the booming chest but a soul moved by broken wings, the whispers of ruined things crushed by a cosmic tongue here is a sparrow corpse this is his poetry catacombs of grubs a wing bent stiffly up the other pounded into utterance Rumi's spirit is riddled by flesh it is blown through the blare of broken lungs not salted on the suds of pious speech but in the ruined breath of sky shattering prayers