Against the glory of your form

the earth seems like specks of dirt

the ocean are mere drops

the brilliant sun a bonfire weak

the vast great sky an opening slim

As insects small the gods do seem

Yes, Rudra, Brahma too-

With fame and glory unsurpassed

Forever may you triumph!

IF one day this singing slave

slave without eyes

should dash against a hillock

and fall into a ditch--

Well then--

May all be well with you!