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The Crazy Intellect

Through love, I have reached a place

          where no trace of love remains,

where “I” and “we” and the image of existence

          have all been forgotten in yearning.

Where am I now? Who can know anything,

          here where no knowledge, no judgment can be found?

In His presence, even love is bewildered

          and the intellect is crazy, talking nonsense.

I am just a traceless dervish:

          helpless and without self,

free from concern about fidelity or harshness,

          a stranger to family and acquaintances.

Only for this can I still be blamed —

          that a cry comes from within me:

out of regret for Nurbakhsh, I say,

          “You have gone, and I don’t know where you are.”

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