From the matrix of thought
we have washed away the desire for You,
never to imagine
communion with You.
You and I united!
It is an impossible hope, I know.
By one’s own feet, no one can traverse
the path to You.
You, the lover of Your own face,
are the Beloved.
How then, can anyone but You
drink up Your jug of wine?
The heart that truly loves You
is none other than You;
in temperament and nature,
Your lovers resemble You.
In the creed of love, Your hair
is the veil covering Your face;
that veil can’t be brushed aside
with the hand of self.
Our tongues do not describe You
as You really are;
better they were cut off
than disgrace Your name.
Not freed from the vanity
of outward color and scent,
we are drunk from “I” and “you.”
How then can we still crave Your fragrance?
Entangled in the bonds of creation and space,
imprisoned in dimensions,
it is only out of heedlessness
that we keep searching for You.
Nurbakhsh, do not think
about the fountain of the sun,
for a wave from the ocean of fana
has washed you away.