ON this tree is a bird:
it dances in the joy of life.
None 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.
Kabîr says: “O brother Sadhu! deep is the mystery.
Let wise men seek to know where rests that bird.”