The fountain rumblingly dances on,
and, drawing a silver line,
it flows through the mountains into the forest.

It does not heed to whatsoever obstruction.
It does not become bound by whatsoever bondage.

It rushes up and down with pleasing imagination.
It rushes through the trees.

Carrying the impulse of the open and matted hair
of Dhurjati's head,
it flows on.

All along each path,
saturated with tears of love,
it seeks liberation.