I.112. sunta nahi dhun ki khabar
HAVE YOU NOT heard the tune which the Unstruck Music is playing? In the midst of the chamber the harp of joy is gently and sweetly played; and where is the need of going without to hear it?
If you have not drunk of the nectar of that One Love, what boots it though you should purge yourself of all stains?
The Kazi is searching the words of the Koran, and instructing others: but if his heart be not steeped in that love, what does it avail, though he be a teacher of men?
The Yogi dyes his garments with red: but if he knows naught of that colour of love, what does it avail though his garments be tinted?
Kabir says: 'Whether I be in the temple or the balcony, in the camp or in the flower garden, I tell you truly that every moment my Lord is taking His delight in me.'

IF THEY ANSWER not to thy call walk alone,
If they are afraid and cower mutely facing the wall,
O thou of evil luck,
open thy mind and speak out alone.
If they turn away, and desert you when crossing the wilderness,
O thou of evil luck,
trample the thorns under thy tread,
and along the blood-lined track travel alone.
If they do not hold up the light
when the night is troubled with storm,
O thou of evil luck,
with the thunder flame of pain ignite thine own heart
and let it burn alone.

SINCE THE FIRST day-break of human age misted with myths,
they walk wonder-eyed on strange shores, the seekers,
and the fighters march at the drum-beats of storm gods
towards an ever-distant time,
along an endless stretch of battle-fields.
The earth trembles at the ceaseless treads of deadly pursuits,
the midnight sleep is troubled,
the easeful life is embittered
and death is made precious.
Those who rushed out at the urge of the road
ever move on beyond the boundaries of death,
and those who clung to their homes
are doomed to lie perpetually encased in the shell of a rigid
life in a soulless world.
Who is there who must be lured by an insipid peace,
by a stagnant stinking security,
and dully choose to build his shelter in a realm of ghosts?
In the beginning man found himself
at the cross-road of existence.
The provision of his journey was given him of his blood,
in his dream, in his path itself.
When he sat down to fix his plan and raised his tower high among clouds its base crumbled away;
he built his dyke only to let it be swept away by floods.
Time and again he fell asleep in his hall of tired carousal
in the gasping light of smoke-bedimmed lamps,
till a sudden assault of a nightmare choked him,
rattled his ribs together
and he woke up in a groaning agony of death.
A sudden awakening has often startled him forth
from the ring-fence of decrepit centuries
towards undefined horizons,
and an impulse forced him away from the fetter of his swollen success,
reminding him that pillars of triumph across Time's chariot-path
bury the builder under their nameless ruins.
He hastens to join the army of the wreckers of patterns
coming from all ages,
crossing hills,
breaking stone walls,
bursting iron gates
while the sky throbs with the drum-beats of Eternity.