With skillful twists of the body they move in every fashion, yet they bring all together in one single rhythm. Nothing at all goes to waste; there is one champion for everyone. Where there is one who knows the art, no unevenness is allowed; balance is maintained throughout. The saints and the great ones play their round in one shared stroke; guard that same stroke, O my brother. They strike the clappers with controlled hands, and the clappers meet in perfect unison. All that is impure and unclean will be cast away; what is the use of decorating the body if the inside is rotten? The one who does not join the saints' round is singled out and removed. There is no need for ceremony; cast off shame and play with utter freedom. Even the ignorant, through nothing but innocence, have earned great honor by the power of Vitthal's name. Their hairs stand on end like festival flags, and their bodies sway with the force of pure devotion. Says Tuka, the throat chokes with emotion in the company of Vithoba.