There is nothing but water in the holy pools.
I know, I have been swimming in them.
All the gods sculpted of wood or ivory can’t say a word.
I know, I have been crying out to them.
The Sacred Books of the East are nothing but words.
I looked through their covers one day sideways.
What Kabir talks of is only what has lived through.
If you have not lived through something, it is not true.
By Kabir, version by Robert Bly. In The rag and bone shop of the heart: poems for men. New York: HarperCollins. (1992), p. 282.