THE SONG OF THE SIKH
by Gurdip Singh Sekhon.
Ah! well let my hair grow long,
and long the Chant of the Guru's Song,
and let my breath burn with his Name,
and if I sing, I am the Brother of man,
a silent Craftsman that builds a Sikh out of his clay,
I would fain be a Disciple diffused through the ages.
My clay is not yet shaded so well,
my ray has not yet its Sway of Love,
yet a brother of man, a man,
a slave who merges in the Master,
a slave and the Master in the slave,
my body is His Temple and Palace,
a poor mud-house yet a temple, a palace and Kingdom!
I would fain be a Disciple diffused through the ages,
I am a Punjabi, but not a Punjabi withal,
the men and women of all the earth have my hands and feet,
and the dwellers of Heaven the same,
and both have my silence and tears and the same is the speech
of love,
I cannot forget the knot He tied on my head,
it is sacred, it is remembrance;
The Master has bathed me in the light of suns not yet seen.
There is eternity bound in the tender fragile knot.
I touch the Raven Sky when I touch my hair,
and a thousand stars twinkle through the night,
I would fain be a Disciple diffused through the ages.
I do not say this is the Master's religion;
I may be uncouth and hairy,
but have you seen my heart?
It longs, it quivers, it lives, it dies, it burns, it glows,
it hopes,
it is the Heart of Humanity,
it is the Soul of Creation's mystery.
The forests and rivers are images of me.
And the very snowy peaks have my gray locks of age.
I would fain be a Disciple diffused through the ages.
I do not say this is the Master's religion;
I do not say the hair is any more than grass;
human bones are but pieces of lime,
yet a single hair is dear remembrance,
a trust, a pledge, a love, a vow, an inspiration.
My form is but a statue of dumb gratitude for the Knot of Friendship
tied by those Kings of Eternity,
the Gurus who came to the Punjab,
the Saviors who condescend to Love me
and made me a home in the Realms of the Beautiful ones,
there yonder!
I know I shall go there to them,
to those far-off palaces of Kings of Love,
and there new robes wait for me,
and great noble loves!
I would fain be a Disciple diffused through the ages.
The Sikh Mothers, The Forty
Sikh Martyers
by Puran Singh from The Temple Tulips.
Forty of the Faithful deserted Guru Gobind Singh,-
unwilling to starve with him, unwilling to stay and
die at Anandpur where the Guru was besiged.
They sought shelter in their homes, but the doors
were
shut against them, and a cry leapt from the Sikh
mothers and from the Sikh sisters and wives.
The brave women bade them go back; there was no
refusge for those who had turned their backs on the Guru.
"No Sikh mother shall own her son, nor a sikh
woman
her man, who turns his back on the Guru. There
is life in death with Him, it is nowhere else."
And they died fighting for the Guru,-the forty
martyrs.
In Your Sharan
by Satwinder Singh.
In Your Sharan,
Is ALL the Sukh,
In Your Sharan,
There is no Dukh.
In Your Sharan,
You are my protector,
In Your Sharan,
What pain can occur ?
In Your Sharan,
You control the five,
In Your Sharan,
You keep me alive.
In Your Sharan,
We commit no crime,
In Your Sharam,
We don't worry about time.
Under Your Sharan,
We become happy and free,
Please take us into Your Sharn,
Dhan Dhan Sri Guru Granth Sahib Jee.
When I Think of You
by S.S. Gurukirn Kaur Khalsa
Phoenix AZ, U.S.A.
My Master, when I think of you,
Tears come in my eyes.
Born to another country,
Tongue and skin,
I ask the question, "Why?"
Seemingly separated forever,
By the hands of time and space,
I shall never forget the hours
I gazed upon your face.
With each visit of your memory
The tears began to fall,
Moved by deepest gratitude
To hear again your call.
Your call pulsing in my veins,
A pounding hammer's beat,
Summons made three centuries ago
By the mighty drum, Ranjit.
On the ground the white horse dances,
Above, the white falcon flies.
Soldier saints are here arising
To heed your battle cries.
I cross the ocean of my tears,
Stretching far and wide,
To meet you after three hundred years
At the fort of Anandpur Sahib.
Imagine the sad bird in the cage.
It has wings but cant fly.
Who dares to pay the price of its release.
One Man did pay the price.
He lose his father.
He lose his sons.
He lose his mother.
He lose his brothers and friends.
For us.
So that we could be set free.
He broke that cage.
You are free.
Fly, Fly and Fly.
The sky is not the limit.
There are millions of skies and universe.
Fly whereever you like.
There is no limit for you.
He gave us directions.
He gave us instructions.
So that we may never get lost.
Fly, Fly to the Home of Truth.
There is no limit for you.
Never, never have i seen such a caring and loving
Man.
By Grace of God he is our Father.
By Grace of God he is our Guru.
He is noone other than Guru Gobind Singh Ji Maharaj.
Lets gear up for Vesakhi 1999.
Lets be UNITED.
Lets do it for this Great Man.
Give Him your Love.
Say to Him that You Love Him.
I Love You Guru Gobind Singh Ji Maharaj
I do always tend to justify, but no way will I
ever lie.
I swear I shall be a good Sikh someday, even though it seems
a little far away.
The Guru has called me for my head.
I think I should run or else I shall be dead.
Keeping the five k’s I dare not do.
For what will people say when I go to the pool?
My conscious has lead me to believe that beauty
means more then Sikhi to me.
Tying a turban is easy for me, but keeping thy beard, "oh my,
it can not be."
I can style my hair in different ways and wear
it down every other day.
Washing it and combing that’s all fine, but those split ends,
"I’m sorry God," I must commit that crime.
I don’t do my nitnem everyday, but "waheguru"
I do always remember to say.
Sihki is within my heart "oh pardon me," I mean at least it’s
a start.
I have Sikh friends who have never committed a
kurat in anyway, but for some reason they forget to pray.
On the other hand I remember God from day to day, but in my
activities I have gone a little stray.
Usually on Sunday’s I don’t go to the Gurdwara
and if I do it’s only to stay in power.
I know I’m beginning to sound like a jerk, but I jut can’t help
it I’ve got work!
"Oops," that was a little slip on my end. I go
to gurdwara to meet my friends.
I only work five days a week from nine to five and on Friday
nights I have a little wine, though let me make it clear that
I don’t drink beer.
India is where I was born you see, for it is like
my own home to me.
Khalistan, I can’t understand for why is it in such demand?
Killing and fighting I do not believe.
I’m all about human rights, but please don’t kill me!
I promise to wear a gatra with the small knife,
but let me just first enjoy my life.
It’s not about Amrit don’t you see, I just want to be true to
me.
I dearly love my Guru Ji and Sikhism is very important
to me.
A hypocrite, "oh no," I will not be.
I do always tend to justify, but no way will I
ever lie.
I swear I shall be a good Sikh someday, even though it seems
a little far away.
