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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.

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