O brother, purer than pure gold
Is the soil of my land.
Her soil and water
Her fruits and flowers
Quench our thirst and hunger.
as we drink from her milk-pot
To have the blessings of this Mother
Taking leftovers from her temples
Pilgrims are gratified, coming from various castes.
O brother prostrating on the dust of this land
Jewels fall down and welter,
O brother slumber of all in the world
Is broken by the touch of her magic stick.
Coating this soil and this mud
Learning from this land’s good conduct
the whole world became civilized all the way
O brother this ascetic in every land
Put on the light out of love,
Mother wakes up alone through the dark night
Watching from the post of crematorium.
