Tukaram, Poem 2291

Wood is weighed scrupulously in balances when it has fragrance; other kinds of wood are of little note. Some timbers are turned on the lathe and palaces are built of them; other kinds become rafters and hovels. Some are poor stuff, which people bring in as headloads; others are good to build up storeys of. They all come into one market; they are sold according to their value. Quality is the chief thing; the shape is matter of indifference; defects are ruinous. Some stones excel others in quality; they are priceless and illustrious. Some are found in the homes of rich and poor, but a few are highly valued. Some lie glittering on sand-banks, but no one would cast a glance at them. Everything is blest and prosperous in its own place; the misery of poverty is an illusion. Among the many castes of men, some are alike in name and form. The state of every man agrees with his store of merit laid up in time past. One man sits at ease on high and causes another to serve him. Tuka says, Why do men call this happiness? Why do they grieve idly when they miss it?