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Don’t wonder how it will turn out —
reason will surrender to madness.
All awareness will leave my head;
my heart will bleed at Your hands.
If love were to rattle the chains
the age-old cosmos would be humbled.
Your flirtation brings turmoil to all,
bewitching both drunken and sober.
Whoever sees Your alef-like loftiness will bend down
like dal — no — will sink even lower, like nun.
The banner of Your love shall be raised high;
the cane that accuses of heresy shall be cast down.
Nurbakhsh sat by himself, away from everyone;
now, he shall leave himself, too.
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