This is the second post in the Tagore/Kabir series.
The thorn of passion, a larger Head, the substance and grind and tenor of which is Not rhythm The thorn of passion, a silent Dig, the plunge and prick and singe of which is Not song It is in the now, also then, also Hence, the inner and outer and which and what is Not known
Tagore’s take on Kabir
I. 104. aisâ lo nahîn taisâ lo O How may I ever express that secret word? O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that? If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed: If I say that He is without me, it is falsehood. He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one; The conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools. He is neither manifest nor hidden, He is neither revealed nor unrevealed: There are no words to tell that which He is.
I bore in my heart
the thorn of passion:
Drew it out one day
And my heart is numb.
– Antonio Machado