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The Hope of All Existence

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”?

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