I’m sick of living, Mother, sick.
Life and money have run out
But I go on crying “Tara, Tara,”
Hoping. You are the mother of all
And our nurse. You carry the Three Worlds
In Your belly.

So am I some orphan fallen out
Of the sky? And if You think I’m bad,
Remember, You’re the cord connecting
Every good and evil
And I’m a tool tied to illusion.

Your name can blot out fear
Of Death – so Shiva said,
But, Terrible One, You forget all that,
Absorbed in Shiva, Death, and Time.

Prasad says: Your games, Mother,
Are mysteries. You make and break.
You’ve broken me in this life.