Since there is no one to be our companion in Love
the prayer-mat is for the pious; wine-dregs and vice for us.
A place where people's souls turn and twist like polo balls
is not a place for rogues; so what's that got to do with us?
If the wine-bringers of the spirit sit with the devout
their wine is for the ascetics; lees and hangovers for us.
Cure is for the purists, consternation for the broken,
joyfulness for the do-gooders; while grief is our remembrance.
O pretender, you are not here to witness our wealth
as the Beloved extorted all that we owned within us.
Words of experience came from the messenger of truth:
O weary, as you make your way, shed your grief for us.
Attār was absorbed in sorrow along this Path.
Because he's absolutely finished, his solace is with us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem