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
unconscious,
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.