From your banks, O Mother Ganges!
Which realm do they reach, the
Wandering thoughts in roving minds,
Nascent dreams in searching eyes,
Lamps nestling in tremulous hands,
Prayers resting in cradles of leaves,
Flames negotiating the maze of shadows,
Hymns and words playing hide and seek,
Floating with the ripples,
And rocked by the waves,
Accompanied by the skies,
And guarded by the banks,
Priests for their sailors,
And hopes for their beacons,
All immersed in your vision,
From your banks, O Ganges,
Which realm do they reach?
When the stars come to enfold,
Lamps and flames in their waiting beings,
Satiated by the melody of your lullaby,
Their cradles too come to rest with the waves,
And so does the turbulence of the tide,
In the quiet of the ocean's heart,
And rhythm of the breeze,
All comforted, all emancipated,
In the murmur of your incessant flow.
Chants rocking in the cradle of breath,
Hymns asleep in the bosom of words,
Desolate docks, deserted boats,
Abandoned anchors, forlorn sails,
All yearning to share,
The solitude of prayers, and
All clamoring to rest,
Their becoming in your being.
When all of them merge,
The banks, the shores and horizon,
The ripples, the waves and the tides,
The streams, the rivers and the oceans,
Do the travelers also reach you then, O Mother?
When do they attain their destination, O Ganges?
The roving minds, nascent dreams,
And hopeful prayers,
On your banks, O Mother!
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