All worldly costume has fallen away, and what remains is neither man nor woman, free of desire. Cut off from one's own, meeting only with strangers, this is the round of the holy minstrels. The passion for Hari Govinda has taken hold at every moment. Those attached to their old ways laugh and mock, throwing garlands of scorn around our necks. The world fears our strange appearance, but our king stands with hands on hips on the bank of the Bhima at Pandharpur. We have fallen into a separate caste, troubled yet united in a single devotion. We have abandoned all longing for the body and its comforts. The one wisdom that surpasses all others: let us serve that and dance for our Beloved, shaking the gourd-rattle like fools in love. Says Tuka, toss a coin and let us dance without shame; great happiness has come, and the old business of desire is finished.