Opening eyes closed long in meditation,
noticing vines wave their blossoms delightfully in the breeze,
feigning playful forgetfulness with “Who are you, O say?”
causing Gauri to weep,
then cheering her up with a smile,
may Lord Shiva bless her with an embrace.
The glorious Golden Age once glowed in the eastern sky
and well-formed patterns adorned the dream-like clouds,
this very light caught in the eyes of birds resonated as songs.
O Bharati, mother of speech, fill the sky over the land of Bharat
with that splendour.
I for one relish great stories of the ancient world,
of the rise of Bharatvarsha, of the essence of snowy effulgence,
recalling the scent of flowers even on chilly days
a lonely cuckoo yearns for such days to return to the north.
(Trans: Padma Devkota)