THE INTOXICATION STORY
The one who is looking for the heart, within the Ka‘bah and the tavern there is not,
Whatever the soul is looking for in the hand of the strange sufi is not.
The utterance of the philosopher, the sufi and Dervish and the Sheikh,
It is not suitable for describing the beauty of the beloved.
To whom do I say the heart’s confidence from whom do I ask about the beloved's description?
Whatever they say the tongue of the lovelorn is not.
Tell the wise to close the book from speech,
Whatever the say from the tongue of the drunk and languishing is not.
If I take a cup from your hand I will make my way towards the beloved,
Deprived is the one who to this cup access has not.
The lovers are aware of the lovesore and the fervency of separation,
The one who was burnt by the candle of your face except the moth, no one else is.
The tress of the hair, the coyness and coquetry and your lip’s mole,
Only the drunkards know that it is nothing but grain and snare.
The intoxication tale and the mystery of the unconsciousness and the drunkenness,
The lovers know that this the myth and the fiction is not.