Tukaram, Poem 1810

O generous Lord, I am weary of coming and going. The balance against me cannot be remitted, I can come to no settlement, I am imprisoned in a cage of bones. My father and mother escort me to life, they hand me over to death. Death sits by, whetting his knife, with the ropes of Yama in his hand. The children of my loins pursue close after me; they will drag me down to hell. The world helps them all; I alone am a stranger in it. There is none that feels compassion, save Thee, O merciful Hari. I trust in Thee, says Tuka; I have given up worldly hopes.