A lyre is this body, O friend.
When its strings are tightened and keys screwed,
the Self within it breaks into a sweet tune.
When the strings get snapped
and keys become loose,
the instrument is left to gather dust.
Friend, be not proud of this body,
one day its swan will fly away.
Says Kabir, listen O brother,
rare is he who bravely walks
the arduous path that leads to Him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.