Where the unlimited, expanding, limiting itself as it expands,
reaches where it can limit itself no further –
there it is; there in its, our, world; there you may see it;
where it could not be more beautiful
...
She passes through life
with grace and ease and lightness
like a fine bright silken sari
caught by the gentle breeze
...
This is the illicit still of poetry
half hidden in the dry ditch beyond the hedge
firewater drunk from an old tin mug
it takes the skin off your throat
...
Weary with the day,
it called to me
as if someone said, here…
...
Statistics tell. You can be
independent of them, but
you cannot deny them.
...
Yes, how were they to know,
searching in the heat of forenoon dunes,
those high hills of sand
where once the forests grew,
...
This starry dawn - the wise men yet afar -
the shepherds are abed, their night's task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth's a miracle; not less this one.
...
See this fine manuscript
so beautifully illuminated round the picture –
why, it’s none other than Kabir!
...
Oh the dark, dark otherness of others!
that brings on, such sadness, such despair…
deep, vast chasm in the heart…
...