I remember bygone days
when my breast was the treasure chest of mysteries.
The soul was fervently occupied with love,
and the hands were held out in supplication.
The heart pined for the Beloved
and was steeped in need.
He was there, with beauty
and purity and the play and teasing of love.
There was hope and desire for union with the Friend.
From night till dawn my eyes
were fixed on His door
and it was open all the while.
How drunkenly
I passed my days,
with goblet in hand,
listening to the melody of the lute.
There was no separation,
no suffering or unfaithfulness,
and out of fidelity
the Beloved was kind to my heart.
There was only the image of His visage
in the core of the heart;
the soul, through its rapt attention to His face,
was in perpetual prayer.
I never regret
that those pleasant dreams have ended,
for illusion was the chamberlain
of the Truth.
O Nurbakhsh, the discussion
about truth and illusion
does not remain now
though it began long ago.
I only meant to tell the story
and the state of the heart
when burning and contentment
were its intimates.
During those years,
freed from the worry of the world,
the Mahmud-like soul
was captivated by the beauty of Ayaz.
I said to myself, “Those were happy days.”
Hearing this, my heart said,
“Don’t conceal that
our affair burned us away in tribulation.”