Strutting about,
A smirk on your face,
Have you forgotten
The ten months spent
In a foetal crouch?

Cremation turns you to ashes,
Burial into a feast
For an army of worms.
Your athlete's body's only clay,
A leaky pot,
A jug with nine holes.

As bees store up honey,
You gathered wealth.
But after you're dead,
This is what's said,
'Take away the corpse.
It stinks.'

A poem by 15th century Indian poet, Kabir; '...a debunker of humbug in an unadorned poetic style.'  Translation by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

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