Poem LXIV

I. 117. sâîn se lagan kathin hai, bhâî

Now hard it is to meet my Lord!
The rain-bird wails in thirst for the rain: almost she dies of
  her longing, yet she would have none other water than the
  rain.
Drawn by the love of music, the deer moves forward: she dies as
  she listens to the music, yet she shrinks not in fear.
The widowed wife sits by the body of her dead husband: she is not
  afraid of the fire.
Put away all fear for this poor body.