O MY CHILD, my infant Shiva,
at every step of thy wild dance things totter and tumble,
thy gatherings are scattered,
and a whirlwind of destruction
spreads the dust of thy trampled toys in the sky.
From desolation to desolation
thy world finds its release;
the stream of thy play ever flows
through the burst bond of thy playthings;
revelling in penury
thou buildest thy creation with trifles,
in the next moment to forget it
for a mere caprice;
with the sky for thy robe,
all covers thou flingest away from thy limbs.
With thy riches hidden in thy being
thou dwellest in a world bare of all shame and show
and thought for self,
in a destitution that never makes thee poor,
and the dust that soils not thy purity,
the sweep of thine own dance
ever wiping thee white.
O Shiva, the Child,
know me for thy lover,
thy disciple in dancing,
teach me the wisdom of unconcern,
the game of breaking of toys,
teach me how to guide my steps
to the time of thy footfalls,
how to move free by rending the webs
of one's own weaving.