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The Broken-Winged Bird

Who am I?

          A forgotten fable,

a speck of dust left behind by the wind

          in the district of love,

a drunkard who has fallen


rejected by the master,

          with no guidance,

an exhausted traveler who has lost

          his way,

a refugee worn out

          from suffering and injustice,

a broken-winged bird left behind

          in the cage,

already driven out of the garden and

          ignored by the hunter,

a pale blush on the lips

          of the beloved Shirin,

a smoldering spark left behind

          from the stonecutter Farhad.

Having traded my prayer rug and cloak

          for wine,

I am a hung-over drunk who has forgotten

          all litanies.

Nurbakhsh was drowned

          in the ocean of fana,

for he was a muffled sigh in the chest,

          a suppressed cry in the heart.

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