We seekers of God
are strangers in your world.
You may have wisdom,
as for us — we are all mad.
We are not like the candle
that weeps at the touch of any flame.
We are ablaze from head to toe,
but laughing like rendan — that is what we are.
Our wings and plumes were scorched
repeatedly by the Friend’s candle flame.
Yet we stood our ground —
we are not like that moth.
When the spell of “I” and “we” was broken
with the rock of madness,
we realized clearly
that we are both treasure and ruin.
We lost our self-worship
in the district of idol-worship.
Stop reproaching us, O mullah,
for living in the idol-temple!
Have you so forgotten the enormity of the covenant
that you brought the measuring cup?
Don’t you realize that we determine
the portions?
O Nurbakhsh, the Cupbearer of the pre-eternal banquet
pours wine according to each one’s capacity,
until His dregs transform us
into precious pearls.