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The Display of Creation

Since I see You want me to be crazy,

          I’ve fallen into madness and disgrace.

I burn in Your candle’s flame, knowing

          that You want me to be a moth.

Neither an intellectual, nor a lover — who am I?

          You know that I am nothing,

and that sometimes You want a friend,

          sometimes a stranger.

Who should I seek? Where should I go?

          I know and I say:

You Yourself are both Layli and Majnun,

          while You want me to be but a fable.

You are both pain and cure,

          the wealth of my soul —

O my hidden treasure, why do You want

          to turn me to ruins?

You are my wish and desire —

          who else can I long for?

Tell me what you want from me

          by demanding in a rend-like way.

The display of creation became a trap

          on the path of those who yearn for You.

I no longer see any prey that would lead me to think

          that you desire some bait.

O Nurbakhsh, other than regret,

          what have you gained from your self,

as sometimes you wander in the wilderness

          and sometimes desire a home?

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