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.