LXXXVII. THE SON HAS BUT ONE DESIRE

Śyāmā, my desire is satisfied.

Mother who art the joy of Hara's heart, and who dost bring to nought the hopes of men, thou hast made void what hope was left to me.

Though I place my soul an offering at thy feet, some calamity befalls. Though I think upon thy loveliness, unceasing death is mine.

Thou dost frustrate my desires, thou art the spoiler of my fortunes. Well do I know thy mercy, Mother of mine.

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Great were my desires, and I spread them all out as a salesman does his wares. Thou didst see the display, I suppose, and didst bring confusion upon me.

Mother, the guards thou didst give me have looted my stall, they have not even left my capital.

My wealth, my honour, kith and kin, all have gone, and I have nothing now to call my own.

What further use is there for me? Wretched indeed am I.

I have sought my own ends, and now there is no limit to my grief.

Thou who dost take away sorrow, to me most wretched hast thou given sorrow. And I must all this unhappy lot endure.

Who will console the one who has no friend except his Mother, and whom that Mother makes to weep?

Make me to weep thou mayst, yet as I weep I shall cry 'Kālī, Kālī,' and with my tears I will wash thy feet. At thy feet I will roll in the dust. To lie there at thy feet and weep, that is my continual desire.

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KĀṄ̇̇GĀL