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Don’t ask me anything,

          for I am no sage.

Do not veil your face from me,

          for I am no stranger.

My heart is bleeding,

          but I am not tearful like the candle;

unlike the moth,

          I keep my burning hidden inside.

That pundit of the city

          who praised me for my knowledge

was crazy to say

          I am not mad.

The cupbearer

          sent me to the vat-house

after hearing I was not content

          with cup, bowl or jar.

I have fallen into the vat,

          happy and drunk;

there is nothing left of me now

          but what the wine seller serves in the tavern.

I found lover, beloved and their love story

          to be nothing but tales —

I am rid of them now;

          I don’t pursue fables.

Love is a treasure,

          lover and beloved the spell;

I don’t roam the ruins

          hunting for buried gold.

Why, you ask, did Nurbakhsh

          give his heart to love?

I said at the beginning:

          I am no sage.

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