O Lord, Your illusive game liila’, is expressed in each form. Sometimes You make one
cry, sometimes You make one smile, and sometimes You unify in the ideation. The morning
sun that pours colour, gets lost in the red picture of the evening. With intensity of the
noon sun, Your coming and going is essential. You go on pouring honey in each flower, fill
the throat of the cuckoo with chirping coos. You swing the mind in the spring, O unlimited
without beginning, of my mind.