Soaked in bliss that shines in your sky,
Mountains become meadows and the mirage comes alive.
Where’s the reservoir that quenches my thirst?
Do I go to it or does it come looking for me?
Tell a person you are drunk,
And he’ll laugh at you, unless, he’s drunk himself,
This joy is abundant, heady, intoxicating,
Drunk on this joy, saints and poets dance, devour, declare,
The world is worth nothing without the name of the Lord,
It’s but gathered dust without the embrace of His holy
abode. |
| The Song of the Sufi Masroof |
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