santo dekhahu jag baurana
sanch kahun to maran dhave jhuTha jag patiyana
hindu kahata ram hamara musalman rahamana
apas me dou laR laR marata marm kai nahi jana
nemi dekha dharmi dekha pratah: kare asanana
atam mar pashanahi puje un me kacchu na gyana
bahutak dekhe pir auliya paRhe hai kitab kurana
ke murid tadabir batave un me uhai jo gyana
asan mar dimbh dhari baiThe man me bahut gumana
pitar pathar pujan lage tirath bane hai bhulana
topi pahare mala phaire chhap tilak anumana
sakhi sabade gavat bhule atam khabari na jana
ghar ghar mantar det phirat hai mahima ke abhimana
guruva sahit sab shishya hi dube ant kal pachhitana
kahahi kabit suno ho santo hai sab bharam bhulana
ketik kahu kaha nahi mane sahaje sahaj samana
(English) [RP: be warned: somewhat excruciating!]
"Look, the world is mad."
Saints, look, the world is mad.
If I tell the truth, they rush to beat me.
If I lie, they trust me.
The Hindu says, I adore Ram.
the Muslim says Rahman.
Then they kill each other.
No one knows the secret.
I've seen pious Hindus, rule-followers,
early morning bath-takers--
they worship rocks.
They know nothing.
I've seen plenty of Muslim teachers, holy men
reading their holy books,
teaching their pupils techniques.
They know just as much.
And posturing yogis, hypocrites,
hearts crammed with pride,
praying to brass, to stones, reeling
with pride in their pilgrimage,
wearing their caps, turning their prayer-beads,
painting their brow-marks and arm-marks,
braying their hymns and their couplets,
reeling. They never heard of soul.
they buzz their mantras from house to house,
puffed with pride.
The pupils drown along with their gurus.
In the end they're sorry.
Kabir says, listen seekers,
they're all deluded.
Whatever I say, nobody gets it.
it's too simple.