I am that poor beggar
who comes to You with neediness.
I am weary of self-display;
I will not even glance at being.
I, a destitute one —
who am I to ask for anything?
To where should I turn my face,
from whom should I hide?
O You, the hope of all existence,
I am perplexed. Who is there besides You
to say to You, face to face,
“Listen, I have a secret to tell”?
I, a drunkard, find myself here,
where there is no beloved but You.
So to whom should I turn and say,
“I desire to pray”?
By the truth of the Truth,
You are both truth and illusion.
Yet my heart did not hear me when I said,
“I am aware of illusion.”
With a song You stole my heart and soul,
my belief and unbelief.
I have now forgotten my companions
and can no longer tolerate the melodies of the lute.
Now, what can the impoverished Nurbakhsh
seek or desire?
To which Kaaba can he turn and say,
“I wish to make a pilgrimage”?