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The very birth of a Brahmin is the embodiment of dharma—he is born for truth and sacred purpose.
From Jamadagni came the mighty Rudra—his valor, renunciation, and gifts are beyond words, exceeding even oceans.
From a divine rite was this luminous, noble king born—his very form shines with benevolence.
On a grand cosmic day, a mighty king was born with astrology, wisdom, and rivalry like Rama—a parrot now retells it in a golden cage.
Even sandal trees born in noble lands are cut by ungrateful travelers; only the fruitless trees remain unharmed.
In a realm where inherited traits gain status, logic and fairness fail—your form now revives reason as a living argument.
May the fiery eyes of Shiva’s consort burn impurities like a river in spate that tosses aside broken skulls.
Some erratic rivers break their own banks and destroy even those on the shore—unpredictable and fierce.
Sometimes the wind takes the right path, sometimes not—now warm, now cold, ever fickle like fate.
Tiny creatures like me appear and perish, bound to serve others—how could such beings create anything grand?
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