Classic Poem

Men serve a lie and build their hopes on it: without the Name they find no dwelling.
Pilgrimage, fast, the service of images: Jama cares not a jot but binds them fast.
By such beliefs let none be cozened, else in mid-stream he sinks and drowns.
The world is besotted with Lok and Veda, benighted fools they know not Rama.
Thus chances have gone and days been wasted, again and again the wall of sand crumbled.
Says Gulal, I am counted a madman: all others wise and I demented.