Classic Poem

O Sants, be wary of this Holi play: in the world great stir this Holi makes.
Lifeless and living, two forms are made: one is gold, the second a woman.
With them are five, twenty-five women, laughing and jesting and singing ribaldry.
Deceit and folly take tambourine in hand beating and beating it again and again.
The fiddle with the three qualities for strings plays a strain unique, desire and thirst.
Scents, sandal, red powder, perfumes, grievous is the clutch of Maya.
Six Darshanas, ninety-six Deceits she has taken and forced to labour for her.
The syringe is filled with desire and coveting — again and again it shoots them forth.
Whosoever comes face to face with this play, is bespattered with the black.
His face is drenched with the powder of folly, he is belaboured with the bundles of lust.
Gods, men munis, Saints and Walis, all in the world are drenched with it.
The wise escaped by paying ransom, the fools were snared in the love of it.
Kabir says, Hear, O Dharm Das, the way of Nirguna's wisdom is unique.