IT is TIME for me to go, mother; I am going. When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, 'Baby is not there!'-mother, I am going. I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again. In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room. If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, 'Sleep, mother, sleep.' On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, 'Where is our baby, sister?' Mother, you will tell her softly, 'He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.'
I.100. koi sunta hai jnani rag gagan men IS THERE any wise man who will listen to that solemn music which arises in the sky? For He, the Source of all music, makes all vessels full fraught, and rests in fullness Himself. He who is in the body is ever athirst, for he pursues that which is in part: But ever there wells forth deeper and deeper the sound 'He is thisthis is He'; fusing love and renunciation into one. Kabir says: 'O brother! that is the Primal Word.'
