GURU GLORIOUSThey ask me to say something about Guru Gobind Singh; they ask me what he is to me. I tremble when they ask me, what he is to me.Unable to say anything in reply, I burst forth into child-like cries of both joy and pain, and I faint away, knowing not what is He to me!Only I say. Guru Glorious, Guru Glorious, Guru Obvious and I am consoled. I slumber in His Lap, soothed by the lullabies of my own sound, knowing not what He is to me!Do not ask me to define Him, Do not ask me to praise Him, Do not ask me to name Him, Do not ask me to preach Him; And ask me not to conceal Him, One who has freed me,– Me the self-poisoned, the downtrodden slave in the. fragrance of Himself.Whatever He may be to anyone else, To me, He is the Creator who has castHimself in the shape of His Song. And sitting nowhere, He showers from His eyes a rain of stars in the sky! Let the Great Ones repeat His name, Let the scholars search Him,Let the learned discourse on Him,Let the martyrs sing Him,Let the lovers call Him,Let the maidens garland Him, and sing Him a welcome!Let the saints worship Him,Let the devotees kiss the Hem of His Garment, and anoint their foreheads withthe dust under His feet,Let the children gather round Him, Whatever He may be to anyone else, To me, He is my secret Friends who comes unseen to me in my dark despair, to wipe a silent tear with the edge of His Kingly Skirt, And says to me when I cannot listen even to Him,choked with my own tears,—– “I am here by your side, the whole of myself when no one is nigh, I am for you. O sad sinner! I am exclusively for you and for no one else!!Let the woman say to Him, “I love you”, Let the singer say to Him, “I sing for you”, Let the dancer say to Him, “I dance for you”, Let the yogi say to Him, “I lie wrappedup in thought of you”,Let the pious tell Him, “We obey. your jaw”, Whatever He may be to anybody else.and anybody else to Him,What can I be?—– I, devoid of all virtue, merit, orlight; I, devoid of the sacred vows of piety, silence or poverty;I, a sweeper of the street of thePleasure of Sense;I, an aimless chaser of quivering Illusions that fly in the trembling colours of the wings of the butterflies that flutter round the Maya of life in full flowers.What can I, I say to Him?– I, the old joy-sipper with the everlasting burden of Illusion on my back:I only cast my head down in shame, I stand abashed, away from all, in thecorner of my own naked body with all its scars and stains;But behold, He cometh even to me, as the sun goes down, and the saintsleave Him alone,And as He cometh, I burst forth crying, And He consoleth me saying: “have Ibeen really too long away from thee?”