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.