Well, I think we'll move to a different sort of reform.
I want to read--
see, what time is getting to be?
We'll read two or three more poems, and then stop.
I'm going to read a poem of the great Indian poet, Kabir,
of the 15th century.
I don't know what sort of god we've been talking about.
This is basically from a Muslim country,
and refers to the muezzin calling from the high tower.
I don't know what sort of god we've been talking about.
The caller calls to the holy creature at dusk,
in a loud voice.
Why?
Surely, the holy one is not deaf.
He hears the delicate anklet, ringing under feet of an insect
as it walks.
Count your beads, over and over.
Paint the mark of God on your forehead.
Wear your hair matted, long, and ostentatious.
But when, deep inside you, there is a loaded gun--
how can you have god?