Through love, I have reached a place
where no trace of Love remains,
Where I' and we' and the painting of existence
have all been forgotten and left behind
Now who can know where I am,
here where no knowledge, no opinion can be found.
Here even Love is bewildered
and the intellect is crazy, talking nonsense.
Totally impoverished, I have no wealth,
no identity of self
Free from faithfulness and faithlessness
a stranger to myself and all acquaintances.
Yet only for this can I still be blamed
that a cry comes from me
Out of grief for Nurbakhsh I say
"You have gone. How is it that I know not where?"

 

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