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?