The fly of the spirit fell into this eternal buttermilk:
neither Muslim, nor Christian, nor Magian, nor Jew.
مگس روح درافتاد در این دوغ ابد
نه مسلمان و نه ترسا و نه گبر و نه جهودMeges-i rûh der-üftâd der în dûğ-i ebed
Ne müselmân u ne tersâ vü ne gebr ü ne cuhûd
Rumi, Divan-i Kabir, ghazal 790.
A fly falls into buttermilk.
It struggles, then its wings stop.
Rumi likens the spirit to that fly.
The buttermilk it fell into has no bottom.
There no one asks:
Are you Muslim, are you Christian,
Magian, or Jew?
Names stay on the shore.
People cling to them,
and part ways over them.
But the closer you come to the bottom,
the more you forget the name you came with.