He’s that rascally kind of yogi
who has no sky or earth,
no hand, foot,
form or shape.
Where there’s no market
he sets up shop,
weighs things
and keeps the accounts.
No deeds, no creeds,
no yogic powers,
not even a horn or gourd,
so how can he
go begging?
‘I know you
and you know me
and I’m inside of you.’
When there isn’t a trace
of creation or destruction,
what do you meditate on?
That yogi built a house
brimful of Ram.
He has no healing herbs,
his root-of-life
is Ram.
He looks and looks
at the juggler’s tricks,
the magician’s sleight-of-hand –
Kabir says, saints, he’s made it
to the King’s land.
