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.
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