I laugh when I hear that the fish in the sea is thirsty,
You don't see the Real in your own home and wander from forest to forest confused.
Kabir will tell you the truth: Go where you will, to Benares or Mathura;
If you haven't found your soul, the world is a mirage.
I don't know what sort of God we're talking about;
The muezzin calls in a loud voice to the holy one at dusk
Why? Surely the Lord isn't deaf.
He hears the tinkle of anklets in the footfall of an ant.
Go over and over your beads, paint your forehead,
wear your hair matted, or braid it long
If deep inside you there's a loaded gun,
how can you have God?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem