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.