not a believer in the mosque, not a pursuer of pagans’ rites, not pristine among the sullied, not a Pharaoh nor a Moses. “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I?” I’m not in the holy texts of Vedas. I’m not there in the dope nor in the wine. I’m not in the high of a drunken man. I’m not asleep nor am I awake. “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I?” I’m not in the happiness, nor in the grief. my ways are neither clean nor untidy. I’m born not of water not of earth, not of air or fire. “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I?” I’m not from Arabia nor from Lahore. not from India nor from Nagaur. I’m not a Hindu nor a Turk from Peshawar. my home is not even in Nadaun. “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I?” I couldn’t find the spiritual secrets. of Adam I was not born. I do not go by the name I was given. I’m not found in the stillness or motion. “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I?” finally I found the One, not someone else not a stranger. and who has now more wisdom than I have. and who, says Bulla, stands himself alone? “how do I know?” says Bulla, “who am I ?”
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