"And let Shyama Dance there"

"AND LET SHYAMA DANCE THERE"

(Rendered from Bengali)

Beaut'ous blossoms ravishing with perfume,

Swarms of maddened bees buzzing all around ;

The silver moon—a shower of sweet smile,

Which all the dwellers of heaven above

Shed lavishly upon the homes of earth ;

The soft Malaya breeze, whose magic touch

Opens to view distant memory's folds ;

Murmuring rivers and brooks, rippling lakes

With restless Bhramaras wheeling over

Gently waving lotuses unnumbered ;

Foaming flow cascades—a streaming music—

To which echo mountain caves in return ;

Warblers, full of sweet-flowing melody,

Hidden in leaves, pour hearts out—love discourse ;

The rising orb of day, the painter divine,

With his golden brush but lightly touches

The canvas earth and a wealth of colours

Floods at once o'er the bosom of nature,

—Truly a museum of lovely hues—

Waking up a whole sea of sentiments.

The roll of thunder, the crashing of clouds,

War of elements spreading earth and sky;

Darkness vomiting forth blinding darkness,

The Pralaya wind angrily roaring;

In quick bursts of dazzling splendour flashes

Blood-red terrific lightning, dealing death;

Monster waves roaring like thunder, foaming,

Rush impetuous to leap mountain peaks;

The earth booms furious, reels and totters,

Sinks down to its ruin, hurled from its place;

Piercing the ground, stream forth tremendous flames.

Mighty ranges blow up into atoms.

A lovely villa, on a lake of blue—

Festooned with dusters of water-lilies;

The heart-blood of ripe grapes capped with white foam

Whispering softly tells tale of passion;

The melody of the harp floods the ears,

And by its air, time, and harmony rich,

Enhances desire in the breast of man ;

What stirring of emotions! How many

Hot sighs of Love! And warm tears coursing down!

The Bimba-red lips of the youthful fair,

The two blue eyes—two oceans of feelings;

The two hands eager to advance—love's cage—

In which the heart, like a bird, lies captive.

The martial music bursts, the trumpets blow,

The ground shakes under the warriors' tread;

The roar of cannon, the rattle of guns,

Volumes of smoke, the gruesome battlefield,

The thundering artillery vomits fire

In thousand directions; shells burst and strike

Vital parts of the body; elephants

And horses mounted are blown up in space;

The earth trembles under this infernal dance;

A million heroes mounted on steeds

Charge and capture the enemy's ordnance,

Piercing through the smoke and shower of shells

And rain of bullets; forward goes the flag,

The emblem of victory, of heroism

With the blood, yet hot, streaming down the staff,

Followed by the rifles, drunk with war-spirit;

Lo! the ensign falls, but the flag proceeds

Onwards on the shoulder of another;

Under his feet swell heaps of warriors

Perished in battle; but he falters not.

The flesh hankers for contacts of pleasure,

The senses for enchanting strains of song,

The mind hungers for peals of laughter sweet,

The heart pants to reach realms beyond sorrow;

Say, who cares exchange the soothing moonlight

For the burning rays of the noontide sun?

The wretch whose heart is like the scorching sun,

—Even he fondly loves the balmy moon;

Indeed, all thirst for joy. Breathes there the wretch

Who hugs pain and sorrow to his bosom?

Misery in his cup of happiness,

Deadly venom in his drink of nectar,

Poison in his throat—yet he clings to hope!

Lo! how all are scared by the Terrific,

None seek Elokeshi whose form is Death.

The deadly frightful sword, reeking with blood,

They take from Her hand, and put a lute instead!

Thou dreaded Kâli, the All-destroyer,

Thou alone art true; Thy shadow's shadow

Is indeed the pleasant Vanamâli.

O Terrible Mother, cut quick the core,

Illusion dispel—the dream of happiness,

Rend asunder the fondness for the flesh.

True, they garland Thee with skulls, but shrink back

In fright and call Thee, "O All-merciful!"

At Thy thunder peal of awful laughter,

At Thy nudeness—for space is thy garment—

Their hearts sink down with terror, but they say,

"It is the demons that the Mother kills!"

They only pretend they wish to see Thee,

But when the time comes, at Thy sight they flee.

Thou art Death! To each and all in the world

Thou distributest the plague and disease

—Vessels of venom filled by Thine own hands.

O thou insane! Thou but cheatest thyself,

Thou cost not turn thy head lest thou behold.

Ay, the form terrible of the Mother.

Thou courtest hardship hoping happiness,

Thou wearest cloak of Bhakti and worship,

With mind full of achieving selfish ends.

The blood from the severed head of a kid

Fills thee with fear—thy heart throbs at the sight—

Verily a coward! Compassionate?

Bless my soul! A strange state of things indeed!

To whom shall I tell the truth?—Who will see?

Free thyself from the mighty attraction—

The maddening wine of love, the charm of sex.

Break the harp! Forward, with the ocean's cry!

Drink tears, pledge even life—let the body fall.

Awake, O hero! Shake off thy vain dreams,

Death stands at thy head—does fear become thee?

A load of misery, true though it is—

This Becoming—know this to be thy God!

His temple—the Shmashân among corpses

And funeral pyres; unending battle —

That verily is His sacred worship;

Constant defeat — let that not unnerve thee;

Shattered be little self, hope, name, and fame;

Set up a pyre of them and make thy heart

A burning-ground.

And let Shyâmâ dance there.

Beaut'ous blossoms ravishing with perfume,

Swarms of maddened bees buzzing all around ;

The silver moon—a shower of sweet smile,

Which all the dwellers of heaven above

Shed lavishly upon the homes of earth ;

The soft Malaya breeze, whose magic touch

Opens to view distant memory's folds ;

Murmuring rivers and brooks, rippling lakes

With restless Bhramaras wheeling over

Gently waving lotuses unnumbered ;

Foaming flow cascades—a streaming music—

To which echo mountain caves in return ;

Warblers, full of sweet-flowing melody,

Hidden in leaves, pour hearts out—love discourse ;

The rising orb of day, the painter divine,

With his golden brush but lightly touches

The canvas earth and a wealth of colours

Floods at once o'er the bosom of nature,

—Truly a museum of lovely hues—

Waking up a whole sea of sentiments.

The roll of thunder, the crashing of clouds,

War of elements spreading earth and sky;

Darkness vomiting forth blinding darkness,

The Pralaya wind angrily roaring;

In quick bursts of dazzling splendour flashes

Blood-red terrific lightning, dealing death;

Monster waves roaring like thunder, foaming,

Rush impetuous to leap mountain peaks;

The earth booms furious, reels and totters,

Sinks down to its ruin, hurled from its place;

Piercing the ground, stream forth tremendous flames.

Mighty ranges blow up into atoms.

A lovely villa, on a lake of blue—

Festooned with dusters of water-lilies;

The heart-blood of ripe grapes capped with white foam

Whispering softly tells tale of passion;

The melody of the harp floods the ears,

And by its air, time, and harmony rich,

Enhances desire in the breast of man ;

What stirring of emotions! How many

Hot sighs of Love! And warm tears coursing down!

The Bimba-red lips of the youthful fair,

The two blue eyes—two oceans of feelings;

The two hands eager to advance—love's cage—

In which the heart, like a bird, lies captive.

The martial music bursts, the trumpets blow,

The ground shakes under the warriors' tread;

The roar of cannon, the rattle of guns,

Volumes of smoke, the gruesome battlefield,

The thundering artillery vomits fire

In thousand directions; shells burst and strike

Vital parts of the body; elephants

And horses mounted are blown up in space;

The earth trembles under this infernal dance;

A million heroes mounted on steeds

Charge and capture the enemy's ordnance,

Piercing through the smoke and shower of shells

And rain of bullets; forward goes the flag,

The emblem of victory, of heroism

With the blood, yet hot, streaming down the staff,

Followed by the rifles, drunk with war-spirit;

Lo! the ensign falls, but the flag proceeds

Onwards on the shoulder of another;

Under his feet swell heaps of warriors

Perished in battle; but he falters not.

The flesh hankers for contacts of pleasure,

The senses for enchanting strains of song,

The mind hungers for peals of laughter sweet,

The heart pants to reach realms beyond sorrow;

Say, who cares exchange the soothing moonlight

For the burning rays of the noontide sun?

The wretch whose heart is like the scorching sun,

—Even he fondly loves the balmy moon;

Indeed, all thirst for joy. Breathes there the wretch

Who hugs pain and sorrow to his bosom?

Misery in his cup of happiness,

Deadly venom in his drink of nectar,

Poison in his throat—yet he clings to hope!

Lo! how all are scared by the Terrific,

None seek Elokeshi whose form is Death.

The deadly frightful sword, reeking with blood,

They take from Her hand, and put a lute instead!

Thou dreaded Kâli, the All-destroyer,

Thou alone art true; Thy shadow's shadow

Is indeed the pleasant Vanamâli.

O Terrible Mother, cut quick the core,

Illusion dispel—the dream of happiness,

Rend asunder the fondness for the flesh.

True, they garland Thee with skulls, but shrink back

In fright and call Thee, "O All-merciful!"

At Thy thunder peal of awful laughter,

At Thy nudeness—for space is thy garment—

Their hearts sink down with terror, but they say,

"It is the demons that the Mother kills!"

They only pretend they wish to see Thee,

But when the time comes, at Thy sight they flee.

Thou art Death! To each and all in the world

Thou distributest the plague and disease

—Vessels of venom filled by Thine own hands.

O thou insane! Thou but cheatest thyself,

Thou cost not turn thy head lest thou behold.

Ay, the form terrible of the Mother.

Thou courtest hardship hoping happiness,

Thou wearest cloak of Bhakti and worship,

With mind full of achieving selfish ends.

The blood from the severed head of a kid

Fills thee with fear—thy heart throbs at the sight—

Verily a coward! Compassionate?

Bless my soul! A strange state of things indeed!

To whom shall I tell the truth?—Who will see?

Free thyself from the mighty attraction—

The maddening wine of love, the charm of sex.

Break the harp! Forward, with the ocean's cry!

Drink tears, pledge even life—let the body fall.

Awake, O hero! Shake off thy vain dreams,

Death stands at thy head—does fear become thee?

A load of misery, true though it is—

This Becoming—know this to be thy God!

His temple—the Shmashân among corpses

And funeral pyres; unending battle —

That verily is His sacred worship;

Constant defeat — let that not unnerve thee;

Shattered be little self, hope, name, and fame;

Set up a pyre of them and make thy heart

A burning-ground.

And let Shyâmâ dance there.

Notes