On this tree is a bird: It dances in the joy of life. No one knows where it is: And who knows what the burden Of its music may be? Where the branches throw a deep shade, There does it have its nest: And it comes in the evening And flies away in the morning, And says not a word Of that which it means. None tell me of this bird That sings within me. It is neither coloured nor colourless: It has neither form nor outline: It sits in the shadow of love. It dwells within the Unattainable, The Infinite, and the Eternal; And no one marks When it comes and goes. Kabir says, “O brother Sadhu! Deep is the mystery. Let wise men seek to know where rests that bird.”
NOTE: This is the translation by Rabindranath Tagore from the 1915 text, One Hundred Poems of Kabir. This is poem #30 (XXX) of that volume.
There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid.
