Tukaram, Poem 1317

Dhdhgli phu, my rival, you! You have soiled yourself. People will spit on your face and back. You are tired out with whirling round; begone, you slave of the world. Foot and hand are wearied; you are tired out with whirling round and round. Unless you bring under control the seven and the five, how can you last out, child? You have lost your breath; your feet are weary, yet you go on spinning round! Tuka says, Silly one! Now do what you have been told to!