Talk to me, javas, talk to me —
what austerities did you do to get Syama Ma’s feet?
Torn from your stems on illusion’s plants,
falling scattered to the ground at Her feet,
you got liberation
beside yourselves with joy.
If only I could learn from your example
my life might bear fruit.
Thousands of sweet-smelling flowers bloom in the woods,
and they’re all such beauties! So how come
you got Ma’s feet?
You’re just ignoran’t javas!
Crimson like you at the Mother’s feet,
when will they be flowers
offered to Her, blessed by Her?
When will they turn red
at the touch of Her feet?
When will they, just like you, blush scarlet —
these dull petals of my mind?