Peace, one and all…
O Beloved, what is this illness
That has no remedy?
What sort of wound is this
That no bruise appears?
My destitute heart
Is always falling in love
And not coming home.
Once in a while he returns to give advice,
But the heart in love never complains.
The one who thinks of himself
Is no lover.
In the marketplace of love,
We are what is sold.
I put myself up for sale each day But never have a buyer!
The lover pays no attention to worldly rewards,
Free of concern for earth or heaven.
The minaret announces that a lover has died –
Dying belongs to beasts, not to lovers.
O my friend, if you are wise, pursue this path.
Here everything begins and ends.
The door of the mystics
Is the door of generosity.
Those who come with sincerity
Do not leave with empty hands.
Yunus disappeared into this unity
And there’s no way
He can even think
Of coming back.