The Self Forgets Itself – Kabir

The self forgets itself 

as a frantic dog in a glass temple 

barks himself to death; 

as a lion, seeing a form in the well, 

leaps on the image; 

as a rutting elephant sticks his tusk 

in a crystal boulder. 

The monkey has his fistful of sweets 

and won’t let go. So 

from house to house 

he gibbers. 

Kabir says, parrot-on-a-pole: 

who has caught you?

There’s A Moon Inside My Body – Kabir 

THE moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it: 

The moon is within me, and so is the sun. 

The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it. 
So long as man clamours for the I and the Mine, his works are as naught: 

When all love of the I and the Mine is dead, then the work of the Lord is done. 

For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge: 

When that comes, then work is put away. 
The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers. 

The musk is in the deer, but it seeks it not within itself: it wanders in quest of grass.

Where Spring, The Lord Of The Seasons – Kabir

Where Spring, the lord of the seasons, reigneth, 

there the Unstruck Music sounds of itself, 

There the streams of light flow in all directions; 

Few are the men who can cross to that shore! 
There, where millions of Krishnas stand with hands folded, 

Where millions of Vishnus bow their heads, 

Where millions of Brahmas are reading the Vedas, 

Where millions of Shivas are lost in contemplation, 

Where millions of Indras dwell in the sky, 

Where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered, 

Where millions of Saraswatis, Goddess of Music, play on the veena 

There is my Lord self-revealed: 

and the scent of sandal and flowers dwells in those deeps.