I don’t know what sort of God we have been talking about.
The caller calls in a loud voice to the Holy One at dusk.
Why? Surely he is not deaf.
He hears the delicate anklets that ring on the feet of an insect as it walks.
Go over and over your beads, paint weird designs 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?
Kabir 15th century Indian Poet (Moslem)
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