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, no 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 I know not where ?"
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