Let me declare it outright:
I am ashamed of myself
and my being — such has the hand of fate
molded my clay.
Who am I? A helpless one,
unaware of either head or foot.
Day and night my soul is ablaze
with the fire of love.
I am a dust-mote, dancing in the air of…
I will say no more.
A dust-mote, I said — no, much less!
I am ashamed of what I said.
Out of desire for Him I burn
like a candle,
but I am disgusted
with my own flame’s self-display.
Self-assertion is a sin
that the Friend does not forgive;
with a single glance,
He cut me off from “I” and “we.”
Thirty years have passed for me,
though it seems many more;
I am now unaware
of the passing years.
I am Nurbakhsh….No, who am I? Nothing.
What was I? A shadow.
What did I become? Effaced. For whom?
For the One who brings peace to my heart.