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.