LXII
I. 35. satî ko kaun s'ikhâwtâ hai
Who has ever taught the widowed wife to burn herself on the pyre
of her dead husband?
And who has ever taught love to find bliss in renunciation?
LXIII
I. 39. are man, dhîraj kâhe na dharai
Why so impatient, my heart?
He who watches over birds, beasts, and insects,
He who cared for you whilst you were yet in your mother's womb,
Shall He not care for you now that you are come forth?
Oh my heart, how could you turn from the smile of your Lord and
wander so far from Him?
You have left Your Beloved and are thinking of others: and this
is why all your work is in vain.
LXIV
I. 117. sâîn se lagan kathin hai, bhâî
Now hard it is to meet my Lord!
The rain-bird wails in thirst for the rain: almost she dies of
her longing, yet she would have none other water than the
rain.
Drawn by the love of music, the deer moves forward: she dies as
she listens to the music, yet she shrinks not in fear.
The widowed wife sits by the body of her dead husband: she is not
afraid of the fire.
Put away all fear for this poor body.