I. 36. sur parkas, tanh rain kahan paiye
WHERE is THE night, when the sun is shining? If it is night, then the sun withdraws its light.
Where knowledge is, can ignorance endure? If there be ignorance, then knowledge must die.
If there be lust, how can love be there? Where there is love, there is no lust.
Lay hold on your sword, and join in the fight. Fight, O my brother, as long as life lasts.
Strike off your enemy's head, and there make an end of him quickly: then come, and bow your head at your King's Durbar.
He who is brave, never forsakes the battle: he who flies from it is no true fighter.
In the field of this body a great war goes forward, against passion, anger, pride, and greed:
It is in the kingdom of truth, contentment and purity, that this battle is raging; and the sword that rings forth most loudly is the sword of His Name.
Kabir says: 'When a brave knight takes the field, a host of cowards is put to flight.
It is a hard fight and a weary one, this fight of the truth-seeker: for the vow of the truth-seeker is more hard than that of the warrior, or of the widowed wife who would follow her husband.
For the warrior fights for a few hours, and the widow's struggle with death is soon ended:
But the truth-seeker's battle goes on day and night, as long as life lasts it never ceases.'

নামজাদা দানুবাবু
       রীতিমতো খর্‌চে,
অথচ ভিটেয় তার
       ঘুঘু সদা চরছে।
দানধর্মের 'পরে
       মন তার নিবিষ্ট,
রোজগার করিবার
       বেলা জপে 'শ্রীবিষ্ণু',
চাঁদার খাতাটা তাই
       দ্বারে দ্বারে ধরছে।
এই ভাবে পুণ্যের
       খাতা তার ভরছে।

YOU SAY THAT father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don't understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me, 'what a naughty child!'
If I make the slightest noise, you say, 'Don't you see that father's at his work?'
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,-a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,-why do you get cross with me, then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, 'Child, how troublesome you are!'
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?