People sting me, but for me
that sting becomes a salve;
this, too, is forgotten
and passes from my mind.
When my Illuminator, out of compassion,
shows me His face,
the candle of my being
becomes snuffed out at once.
“Pay attention,” He says,
“For I will enter through your door.”
But when He arrives,
all sense leaves my head.
“Speak up!” He tells me.
“I will hear what you have to say.”
But my heart and soul
only listen to His words.
“Why don’t You remove the covering
from Your face?” I ask.
“Your ‘why’ itself becomes a veil,”
He replies.
Wait, O Cupbearer,
there is no need for wine!
The heart is falling in a stupor
from Your intoxicating eyes.
Nurbakhsh, as long as you are free from
the thought of other than Him,
people may sting you, but for you
that sting becomes a salve.