O icy, stormy wind, blow hard, blow hard;
O threatening clouds, heavy and dark,
O flash of lightning, quivering like a wave in the sea,
O roaring thunder, rumbling over the mountain heights,
Flash and crash – Oh, crash now!
O storms blow hard, and fast.
O breath of ingratitude, O subtleties of insincerity,
Make display of your vanity before me;
What do I care? Immune I am.
O beauties, tender and youthful,
O forms slender as cypresses,
O trees laden with fruit, flourish and live;
I care not any more for you.
O wealth of the world, O power and might, O ambition,
O sweet revenge, do not waste your strength on me;
Immune am I from your fury.
O beauties, your charm and tender glances no longer attract me.
I have lifted my soul above the three gunas;
No more is there fear of tamas and rajas,
No more love of sattwa.
I quickened the spirit of a Caesar, a Hannibal and a Napoleon.
I thundered in Timur, as he marched on India.
I am the nightingale and the blackbird;
I am the cicadas of the Japanese poets;
Mine is the music, mine the thunder,
Mine the fury of the storm.
I stand like a mighty rock, round which the waves beat furiously,
But leave it unshaken for ever.
Be like this – this is the ideal.
If you pursue the things of the world, glamour of name and form,
You will be led into a quagmire of avidya and be lost.