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Once again, the minstrel played

          the song of Unity,

liberating us by love

          from any need of both worlds.

Thank God that my restless heart

          has passed from itself

and found the path

          to the tavern.

O mullah, don’t say that the religion

          of wine-worshipers is a different creed;

the cupbearer performs the funeral rite

          for the deceased drunkard.

That one who, in the guise of friendship,

          set the trap of deception

in the district of purity

          is a stranger.

Whoever severed his bond with us and left the path

          was given to illusion;

he acted fairly to leave

          and set out for the realm of his imagination.

The lover who was steeped in neediness

          turned away in disregard

and vigorously ignored 

          everything other than the Friend.

On the Beloved’s path

          Nurbakhsh is excused

for having gone a long way

          and spoken at length.

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