O MY CHILD, my infant Shiva,

self-forgetful,

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.