The path of the Saints is not that of renunciation, of practicing austerities and harsh self-discipline in the seclusion of caves and forests. It is the path of love and devotion, of going within and experiencing spiritual bliss. When the devotee goes within and develops true love and longing for the Lord, his mind — previously dominating the soul — becomes a slave, and worldly desires and cravings fade away. Enjoying the taste of inner spiritual bliss, mind becomes averse to worldly pleasures.

The ascetics, hatha yogis, hermits and recluses make their bodies emaciated through rigorous practices — fasting, penances and austerities — but when faced with the world, the withered creeper of their passions and cravings again sprouts and starts bearing bitter fruits. The fire of austerities appears to have destroyed the forest of attachments, but when the fire dies down, the forest takes no time to become green again.

Kabir says that the tree of life bears fruit only when its roots are cut, that is, when the soul separates itself from the physical body and goes into the inner spiritual regions. If one tries to cut the creeper of the passions, it spreads and blossoms — the more one suppresses the passions and desires, the greater the force with which they rebound — but if it is given the water of devotion, it dries up naturally.

In the path of the Saints, the sublimation of desires and passions is not a deliberate or forced process; it is the natural result of the diversion of the mind and soul currents from the outside world to the inner regions of ineffable bliss. Kabir, through paradox, amplifies this essential aspect of SantMat.

Kabir, the creeper withered,
Neither its fruit
Nor its form was left;
I brought it home
To use as fuel,
But it turned green
And tendrils began
To sprout again.

The fire runs through the forest
Consuming everything in its path;
But greenery trails the fire,
The woods regain their verdant sheen.
Kabir, all praise to the tree
That bears fruit
Only when its roots are cut.

Kabir, if I cut it,
It flourishes all the more;
If I water it,
It wilts and dies.
Strange are the ways
Of this wondrous creeper
Which I have no words
To describe.

Kabir, in the courtyard is the creeper,
Its fruit is in the sky;
It is like a heifer's milk,
Like an arrow
Made from a rabbit's horn,
Like the antics
Of a barren woman's son.

Kabir, bitter is the creeper,
Bitter the fruit it bears;
Only when the fruit
Gives up the creeper's company
Is it called the property
Of the holy ones.

Kabir, what if it reaches
The hands of an ascetic,
Still its bitter smell
Spreads all around,
And its seeds yet
Hidden in the shell
Can sprout again.

K.G., p. 67:58:1-6