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The torrent of the path

          brings the mind to a boil;

the ocean of fana

          causes oblivion and quietness.

In the assembly of the people of mystical states

          the only speech is silence;

it is the banquet of multiplicity

          that fosters whispering.

We have drained a goblet,

          and fallen eternally drunk.

What other wine

          could cause such a stupor?

It is no wonder

          that we have forgotten our selves.

Yes, the thought of the Friend

          causes forgetfulness.

In pre-eternity,

          this was my lot:

to sit always by a vat

          of intoxicating wine.

The dream of love

          reveals the face of Truth,

while the intellect slumbers like a rabbit:

          open-eyed but fast asleep.

Out of yearning,

          Nurbakhsh has composed this poem,

for the torrent of the path

          brings the mind to a boil.

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