I met Rumi on the ferry,
he was seasick all the time.
We hadn’t left Harlingen Harbour
when he started to look pale
and he asked me –
I mean: he, Rumi, asked me! –
for some wisdom.
I told him to get a bit of fresh air on the deck.
“Fresh air is the miracle of transparency,” he mumbled.
He looked outside, it was raining.
“Then again, perhaps not.”
He wasn’t quite himself maybe.