THE SONG OF INSPIRATION
Wearing cloak, I had some wine in the tavern,
So that I lose both tranquility and sobriety.
I won't be cured by the Sheikh's breath,
I have to complain to the wine-selling idol.
Neither the researcher was aware nor the mystic had a trace,
From now on my hand and the skirt of a silent elder.
The Sufi and his privacy, and the scholar with his sanctum,
We and the abode of the puzzled idol homeless.
I passed through the door of the school, monastery and the tavern,
So that I become the slave at her place's door.
Don't listen to the roar of sufi and dervish,
So that, the song of inspiration reaches your soul.