We are poor folk, always in rags; thieves take fright at our empty doorstep. We go out begging while the dogs guard the house. Tell me, is this not a fine way to live? If you want greatness, then let it be this kind. Our house is built of honest toil, firm and true, yet like the castor plant that cannot bear another's burden. Grain fills every other house, while we fill our bellies on alms; who tends our cattle and calves? All worry has been shed; our capital is cow dung and clay, our shining walls are tulsi shrines. Says Tuka, O God, we have handed all our cares to You, and You alone tend to our family.