A million, million are those
Who live on withered leaves and plain water;
A million, million yet are those
Who, like the mythical Sahora bird
That feeds on the milky moon beam,
Drink of the nectar
Flowing from the mystic moon and remain immortal.
A million, million further are those
Who having sundered the karma twine,
Live in solitudinal trance of wisdom's silentness,
Knowing neither day nor night.
Surrounded by them all
Art Thou seated in state
In the Lion Throne studded with rare gems!
When will it be that Thou call me to adore Thee
That I countless times bowing low,
Worship at Thy feet with fragrant flowers
And rid myself of my heart's woes?
Oh! Mantra Guru! Oh, Yoga Tantra Guru!
O! Mauna Guru
That comes in the line of Mula the Holy!