We, beggars
in the tavern of ruin,
drink the wine
of His pure essence.
Selfless from
the colorless wine,
we are the mirror image
of God’s countenance.
We played the backgammon of love with Him,
and the Beloved won.
In chess we were checkmated
by the Friend’s rook.
We do not belong
to the people of prayer and litany;
we have stopped
petitioning God.
In every direction
we see the face of the Beloved,
not seeking the Kaaba
or other holy places.
We are annihilated from self
and free from others;
we are far away from the mullah
and his hypocritical nonsense.
We are the bestower of light
and the enemy of the pretentious;
we annul the magic and miracles
of false pretenders.