Kabir is the one doing the weaving in this picture. We know he was raised by a Muslim family who worked as weavers in the Indian city of Varanasi (also called Benares).
Robert Bly translated 44 of Kabir’s poems in 1993.
Have you heard the music no fingers enter into?
Far inside the house
entangled music –
What is the sense of leaving your house?
Suppose you scrub your ethical skin
until it shines –
but inside there is no music,
Mohammad’s son pores over words,
and points out this
but if his chest is not soaked dark with love,
The Yogi comes along in his famous orange,
But if inside he is colorless,
Kabir says: Every instant that the sun is risen,
if I stand in the temple, or on a balcony,
in the hot fields, or in a walled garden,
my own Lord is making love with me.
I read this poem, and I cry out “Let the music play within me!” I read this poem, and I cry out “Let my chest be soaked dark with love!” I read this poem, and I cry out, “Let me be as colorful on the inside as the Yogi is on the outside!”
This poem can be found in The Kabir Book
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