We have no dealings with anyone
but the Friend.
The lover is not enslaved
by images and forms.
Are you still parading your existence
before the Beloved’s eyes?
Then your love has proven
to be worthless.
How could a lovesick one
complain of pain?
Be gone, O false claimant,
for you don’t truly pine for the Friend.
You are not a lover
if you are settled and secure.
Indeed, he whose head is not hung
from the gallows is not victorious.1
Better to spend this life
with wine and the Beloved,
for one cannot depend
on this transient realm.
I saw that in the lover’s eyes
God is love.
And I say there is no better maxim
than this.
Never, never did my turbulent heart
find calm.
Clearly, for the poor lover
there is no rest.
Nurbakhsh has fallen
into a trap;
he has no thought of escaping
and no feet of his own with which to do so.