Swan, tell me your old story.

What country have you come from, Swan, what shores are you flying to?

Where do you rest at night, and what are you looking for?
It's dawn, Swan, wake up, soar to the air, follow me!

There's a land not governed by sadness and doubt, where the fear of death is Unknown.

Spring forests bloom there and the wind is sweet with the fower He-is-myself.
The bee of the heart dives into it and wants no other joy.

Kabir