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Poems of Tulsidas - translated by Professor John Stratton Hawley

Madhav, you'll find none duller than I.
The moth and the fish, though lacking in wit,
can scarcely approach my slow standard.
Transfixed by the shimmering shapes they meet,
they fail to discern the dangers of fire and hook,
But I, who can see the perils of fiery flesh
and still refuse to leave it, have wisdom even less.

I've drifted along in the grand and entrancing
river of ignorance, a stream that knows no shores,
And abandoned the rescue raft of Hari's lotus feet
to grasp after bubbles and foam.

Like a dog so hungry that he lunges for a bone
grown ancient and marrowless; and bitten so tight,
The bone scrapes his mouth and draws blood-
his own blood-yet he tastes it with delight.
I too am trapped in jaws. The grip that clamps
is that of a merciless snake, this life,
And I yearn for relief, a frightened frog, but have spurned
the one chance I had: the bird that Hari rides.

Here and there other water creatures float;
we are snared together in a tightening net:
Watch them, how greedily they feed on one another,
and they never sense that next may be their turn.

The goddess of learning could count my sins
for countless ages and still not be done,
Yet Tulsidas places his trust in the One
who rescues the destitute, and in trusting hopes to live.