Mawlana [Live in New Delhi]

In memory of the beloved
we drank a wine;
we were drunk with it
before creation of the vine.

The full moon its glass, the wine
a sun circled by a crescent;
when it is mixed,
how many stars appear!

Our Lord, O our Lord!

If not for its bouquet,
I would not have found its tavern;
if not for its flashing gleam,
how could imagination picture it?

Time preserved nothing of it
save one last breath,
concealed like a secret
in the breasts of wise men.

Our Lord, O our Lord!

But if it is recalled among the tribe,
the worthy ones
are drunk by morn
without shame or sin.

Our Lord, O our Lord!