Mother, This Is The Grief That Sorely Grieves My Heart Poem by Ramprasad Sen

Mother, this is the grief that sorely grieves my heart,
That even with Thee for Mother,
and though I am wide awake,
There should be robbery in my house.
Many and many a time I vow to call on Thee,
Yet when the time for prayer comes round,
I have forgotten.
Now I see it is all Thy trick.

As Thou hast never given,
so Thou receivest naught;
Am I to blame for this, O Mother?
Hadst Thou but given,
Surely then Thou hadst received;
Out of Thine own gifts I should have given to Thee.
Glory and shame, bitter and sweet, are Thine alone;
This world is nothing but Thy play.
Then why, O Blissful One,
dost Thou cause a rift in it?

Says Ramprasad:
Thou hast bestowed on me this mind,
And with a knowing wink of Thine eyes
Bidden it, at the same time, to go and enjoy the world.
And so I wander here forlorn through Thy creation,
Blasted, as it were, by someone's evil glance,
Taking the bitter for the sweet,
Taking the unreal for the Real.

[Translated by Elizabeth U. Harding]