So pleasantly does my heart pain me, what use have I for cure

So pleasantly does my heart pain me, what use have I for cure
Bound in the infidelity of His tresses [1], what good is faith

[1]  a long lock of a woman's hair.  ("her golden tresses tumbled about her face")


Imperial festivity reigns in the solitude of this tavern
What need have we of gardens, what profit is Paradise

An ocean of water floats us, yet we thirst-how strange
We are at home, yet strangers- what paradox

At the very point of Union, separation overwhelms us
We away from the Friend, He is closer to us than ourselves

We are the ones, who are drunk with the Meeting, nothing more
We are effaced of self-we are Permanence, nothing more

We drank deep from the cup of His Pure Light
We in this tavern, remember Him nothing more

Heart and Soul we surrender ourselves to His Cause
Wherever He takes us, we are content and nothing more

                             ...........By a Sufi Saintly Poet