Think twice before you keep The bad company Of someone like me. The bitter neem that keeps The bad company Of a sandalwood tree Begins to smell like sandalwood. The piece of iron that keeps The bad company Of the philosopher’s stone Turns into gold. Waters that drain Into the Ganges Become the Ganges. And those who keep The bad company Of Rama, says Kabir, End up A bit like Rama.
Except that it robs you of who you are, What can you say about speech? Inconceivable to live without And impossible to live with, Speech diminishes you. Speak with a wise man, there’ll be Much to learn; speak with a fool, All you get is prattle. Strike a half-empty pot, and it’ll make A loud sound; strike one that is full, Says Kabir, and hear the silence.
Answer this and do it quickly, If you care at all for your devotee. Who’s greater? The lord of the universe Or the one who made him? The Vedas Or their source? The mind Or what the mind believes in? Rama Or Rama’s supplicant? The question that’s killing me, says Kabir, Is whether the pilgrim Or the pilgrim town is greater?
Like a sharp arrow Is the love of Rama. Only someone struck by it Knows the pain. You look for the wound, But the skin is not broken. You bring out the ointment, But there’s nowhere to rub. When all women Look the same, Who among them Will the lord choose? Fortunate is she, Says Kabir, In the parting of whose hair, And hers alone, Is put vermilion.
Let’s go! Everyone keeps saying, As if they knew where paradise is, But ask them what lies beyond The street they live on, They’ll give you a blank look. If paradise is where they’re heading, Paradise is not where they’ll end up. And what if the talk of paradise is just hearsay? You better check out the place yourself. As for me, says Kabir, if you’re listening, Good company’s all I seek.
The gardener’s wife Cuts short the brief life Of the flowers and offers them To a lifeless stone idol That a sculptor carved, Feet on its chest, Chisel in hand. Had the idol been alive, It would have Lashed out at the sculptor. It would have seen through the priest Who grabs all the food The faithful bring, Leaving the scraps to the idol. Not one, not two, But everyone’s a sucker, Says Kabir. Not me.
His death in Benares Won’t save the assassin From certain hell, Any more than a dip In the Ganges will send Frogs—or you—to paradise. My home, says Kabir, Is where there’s no day, no night, And no holy book in sight To squat on our lives.
