Joy is brief.
Sorrow and grief are endless.
The mind’s an elephant,
mad, amnesiac.

Air and fire burn as one,
just as when the moth, its eye enchanted by light,
flies straight into the lamp,
and wing and fire flare together.

Who hasn’t found
restful peace in a moment of pleasure?
So you brush aside the truth,
and chase the lies you hold so dear.

At the end of your days
you feel the temptation, you covet joy,
even though old age and death
are close at hand.

The world’s embroiled in illusion, error:
this is the process always in motion.
Man attains a human birth:
why does he waste and destroy it?

Kabir: The Weaver’s Song
tr. Vinay Dharwadker