Calling Me Home
Across the blue hills
Day is softly turning,
And I hear a voice,
The swallows cross the blue hills,
Settling and chirping in their nests.
I hear a gentle voice
Sweetly calling me home to rest.
The fireflies, flickering along
The dark path, light me home.
I hear that sweet voice,
Softly urging me, 'Come.'
'Tis my mother's voice.
In it I hear her love
As it beckons me come
To my heavenly home.
So night settles peacefully
On the blue hills so near.
As I travel homeward,
I hear her voice, so dear.
I long to see her,
For I miss her so.
I'll soon hear her
As to my home I go.
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
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