Mother, this is the grief that sorely grieves my heart,
That even with Thee for Mother,
and though I am wide awake,
There should be robbery in my house.
Many and many a time I vow to call on Thee,
Yet when the time for prayer comes round,
I have forgotten.
Now I see it is all Thy trick.
As Thou hast never given,
so Thou receivest naught;
Am I to blame for this, O Mother?
Hadst Thou but given,
Surely then Thou hadst received;
Out of Thine own gifts I should have given to Thee.
Glory and shame, bitter and sweet, are Thine alone;
This world is nothing but Thy play.
Then why, O Blissful One,
dost Thou cause a rift in it?
Thou hast bestowed on me this mind,
And with a knowing wink of Thine eyes
Bidden it, at the same time, to go and enjoy the world.
And so I wander here forlorn through Thy creation,
Blasted, as it were, by someone’s evil glance,
Taking the bitter for the sweet,
Taking the unreal for the Real.