Drive me out of my mind, O Mother!
What use is esoteric knowledge
Or philosophical knowledge
Transport me totally with the burning wine
Of your all-embracing love.
Mother of mystery, who imbues with mystery
The hearts of those who love you,
Immerse me irretrievably
In the stormy ocean without boundary,
Pure love, pure love, pure love.
Wherever your lovers reside
Appears like a madhouse
To common perception.
Some are laughing with your freedom,
Others weep tears of your tenderness,
Still others dance, whirling with your bliss.
Even your devoted Gautama, Moses,
Krishna, Jesus, Nanak and Muhammad
Are lost in the rapture of pure love.
This poet stammers,
Overcome with longing:
‘When? When? When?
When will I be granted companionship
With her intense lovers?’
Their holy company is heavenly
A country fair for those mad with love
Where every distinction
Between master and disciple disappears
Their love of love sings:
‘Mother! Mother! Mother!
Who can fathom your mystery,
Your eternal play of love with love?
You are divine madness, O goddess,
Your love the brilliant crown of madness,
Please make this poor poet madly wealthy
With the infinite treasure of your love