Yo, listen to the tale of the man and the wood,/Sitting where the branches of the Kalpavriksha stood.

He wanted a bed, and the velvet appeared,/He wanted a feast, and the table was cleared.
The fire was bright in the middle of the night,/But then came the thought that gave him a fright.
He spoke to the shadows, he whispered his dread,/“I’m sure there’s a tiger,” was the last thing he said.
The word was a seed, and the tree made it grow,/His own tongue was the archer, his mind was the bow.

It wasn’t a fluke, it wasn’t a slip,/He sank his own boat with a loose-moving lip.
No need for a boxer to knock himself out,/When you’re feeding a beast with the scraps of your doubt.

So watch what you’re thinking and guard what you say,/Don’t summon the tiger to take you away.
Build up the light and let the truth be your guide,/‘Cause under this tree, there is nowhere to hide
The world is waiting for the words you decide.