What can a poor garment do if the wearer's inside is not dyed with God? Outward washing cannot remove inner filth. Say Rama, Rama with your mind; you have no business with anything else. The Name has ferried many across; uphold the honor of Tuka now. The greedy man's mind is fixed on wealth, the lustful one's mind on desire. A mother's mind rests on her son. Tuka's mind rests upon Rama. I call Tuka a bird-animal, a speaking creature of the garden. I shall not call the unholy ones saints, for they bear the brand of falseness. Rama is very sweet, says Tuka; let me fill my whole body with Him. I shall make this body a boat and cross to the far shore. I would stand at the doorstep of the saints, picking up the pebbles from their path. Walking behind them, I would gather the dust that rises from their feet upon my head. Says Tuka's Lord: I do not honor the one who has much wealth. I am devoted to the mouth from which Rama's name comes forth. A mouth that says Rama is a blessed mouth, as if it has eaten fine butter and sugar. A mouth without Hari is a mouth full of dust. What caste is such a wretch? A mouth that says Rama is good; without Rama it is poison. I do not recognize comings and goings; one day death will teach its lesson. Says Tuka, I sell a true commodity; the buyer must give his whole self. Sweet are the saints; for the fool, it is a blow upon the head. I am the servant of those who worship Rama without expectation. What can the poor scholar do, stretching out his hands in want? Keep your love for Rama just as close and sweet, like the moth that goes to the flame and turns its body to ash. Says Tuka, the world is deluded; no one heeds what is told. When death catches them by the hand, it twists and crushes them. The true hero is not one of empty boasts, but one whose inner effort bears fruit. He endures the hammer's blow; the diamond emerges from its test. Many claim to be heroes, but very few truly fight. One attains a high station; another finds only the scaffolds. Says Tuka, illusion is a box that nobody recognizes. Only those who chant Rama's name walk the devotee's path. An infidel is one who thinks himself wise but has filled the world with harm. Says Tuka, listen, brothers: their hearts are hard as stone. Heaven is not won by a rosary used merely to impress people. Even the lowly spider, spinning its humble web, eats the fruit of its labor. The one who found the fruit is glad and argues with nobody. The deer does not see the arrow; its mind is captivated by music. Tuka is Rama's servant, with one unwavering feeling within. That will not change, whether this body lives or goes. Says Tuka, bind your mind to Rama as tightly as a cow tied to a post. Though the calf runs free, the bond of love is never broken. When heart meets heart, the body becomes cool. Says Tuka, to meet such a one is very rare. When hearts meet, everything meets. Otherwise, companionship is useless, like water poured on stone; the body beneath is never wetted. Says Tuka, keep company only with those who double your happiness. The wicked one's face is blackened; his presence only diminishes love. True meeting is when mind merges with mind. Rubbing surfaces together outwardly is of no worth. Says Tuka, even if you abandon family, children, and spouse and shave your head, until desire itself has died, what have you accomplished? Says Tuka, when desire is extinguished, what does it matter if everything turns to dust? Once the churning-rod has yielded the butter, who keeps churning the buttermilk? The title of my Lord endures, and Tuka follows His decree. Only the true hero fights with me: the one who has given up all attachment to the body. Says Tuka, it is well that I became a servant of the saints. Who knows how many deaths I would have died, had the mind's desires not been quenched? Says Tuka, what do I want with other sweets that fatten the body of vice? A dry roti with Rama's name is better than butter, sugar, and cream. Do not say you have no store of merit. Do not say such a thing. Take the profit of Hari's name and do not let this birth go to waste. When the noose of death falls upon your neck, how will you utter Hari's name? Do not think, O fool, that your days are fully spent. Do not say the human body is weak, O wretch. Says Tuka, how many times shall I tell you? In the end, only dirt will fill your mouth.