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O minstrel, we have fallen

          far beyond the reach of reason tonight;

we are game if you play

          the tune of madness until dawn.

Our song of Unity is composed of

          longing sighs and the heart’s wailing;

we have left behind our selves,

          rosary and prayer rug.

We are not interested in profiting from

          the wares of faith and unbelief;

on the path of love and affection,

          we handed over the cash of our self-existence.

If you have heard that we are rendan

          it is true;

but if you are simple,

          we will be simple with you.

We have felt the agitation of a fervent love

          in the vat of the heart;

we are now more intoxicating

          than a hundred jugs of wine.

O Nurbakhsh, there is no freedom

          from the chains of love’s madness;

having escaped the bounds of “I” and “we,”1

          we are free.

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