|As to your Wife: well, that's between you and her
Perhaps I should have mentioned my intense respect, and admiration, for Sufi diwans/ghazals poetry/literature, and the synthesis of science and mysticism found in the lives and work of remarkable polymaths like Khayyam in high-culture medieval Islam.
As a poet (for 56+ years), I never lose the sense of paradoxical rapture I experience reading Rumi, Attar, and others, because of my limited, very imperfect, knowledge of "facts on the ground." At the same time, I am aware of the impossibility of knowing Rumi's thoughts and feeling in the context of his times.
And, the western popularity of Rumi and others is of, course, based on a re-interpretation too often with its Islamic devotional matrix stripped away: [^].
When fat-and-jolly Coleman Barks (who can't read medieval Persian, Urdu, etc.) makes videos of himself reading his "translations" of Rumi with Iranian musicians sitting at his feet, I want to puke,
The ghazal tradition and its mystical fervor, brought back by crusade-returning warriors into France and Germany, sparks the birth of western romantic poetry, and its cult-of-courtly-love pathos for the never attainable Beloved.
That tradition has never died, and modern poets like Shahid Ali (now deceased) bring it to life in English: [^].
If some Ifrit (evil spirit) possessed me, and, demanded my take on verse #51 to release me, I might try:
a feather floats down, a poet seizes it,
uses it as a quill to write a fiction
he believes is his life: then,
the feather floats away, unstained
Could my lie buy my freedom from a liar
«One day it will have to be officially admitted that what we have christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of dreams.» Salvador Dali