Jeevat Samjhe Jeevat Bujhe Jeevat He Karo Aas…

Jeevat Samjhe Jeevat Bujhe, Jeevat He Karo Aas
Jeevat Karam Ki Fansi Na Kaati, Mue Mukti Ki Aas

Alive one sees, alive one knows, find your liberation while alive
If Alive you do not cut the noose of your attachments , how will there be liberation with death?

You need to wake up while you are alive; it is your only chance. You need to drop the ties of attachments to illusory things that bind you in illusion. This can only be done while alive, death is not a liberator.

कबिरा प्याला प्रेम का अंतर लिया लगाय |…

कबिरा प्याला प्रेम का अंतर लिया लगाय |
रोम रोम में रमी रहे और अमल क्या खाय ||

Kabira pyaala prem ka, antar liya lagaye
Rom rom mein rami rahe, aur amal kya khaye

Kabir, the cup of love, I’ve ingested, assimilated
It’s in every hairstrand, nothing’s more intoxicating

जो तोको काँटा बुवे ताहे बोव तू फूल…

जो तोको काँटा बुवे ताहे बोव तू फूल |
तोहे फूल को फूल है ताहे है तिरसूल ||

Jo toko kaanta buve,taahe bov tu phool
Tohe phool ko phool hai, taahe hai tirsool

For those who sow thorns for you, you should sow a flower
For you flower’s a flower but, for them it’s a trident

गुरु गोबिन्द दोउ खडे काके लागूँ पाँय |…

गुरु गोबिन्द दोउ खडे काके लागूँ पाँय |
बलिहारी गुरु आपने गोबिन्द दियो बताय ||

Guru gobind dou khade, kaake lagoon paay
Balihari guru aapne, gobind diyo batay

Guru and God both are here, whose feet should I touch first
All glory be unto the guru, path to God who did bestow

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,–rejoicing,–sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.