That god, doesn’t meditate us,
when our pleas pop up, we get bottled up.
They come to console,
Who live a life of pleasure.
We should get ready to die
a hundredth time.
We ooze blood from our lips
They appall us with their sticky brandy.
We’re the ones who flow like river,
but born again and again like parthenium plants
with old stench.
6* Translated by, Ankur Betageri