Shiva, Oh Mystic Power, Auspicious is Thy name.
The Vedas call Thee Rudra, Thy wrath has gained much fame.
As third of the Triple Murti, dissolution Thou dost bring
Yet as Pashupati, Thou protectest every thing.
You are the source of conscious self, and this is a vision of You
In our sacred history: You have a neck all blue
With coiled cobra all around, and body smeared in gray,
With a chain of skulls, Thou art clad in a deer-skin, they say.
Thy Third Eye pulverized Kama in his reckless day;
It fills us with awe in a very intense way.
In the mystic vision Thou art on Kailash Mount
Of the sacred Ganga , Thy matted hair is fount.
Thou art known as Kaala – Time with no End,
And as Benign Sankara – to all Thou art a friend.
You art Mahadeva, the greatest Divinity.
Thy spiritual secrets are much more
Than all the names and forms in tradition’s lore.
Thou art the abstract One that brings to complete naught
All that ever emerged as thing or as thought.
Not just the bloom of flower and the beat of heart
But everything comes to end that ever had a start:
From whisper frail of the gentle breeze
To ancient rocks and sturdy trees,
From leptons, hadrons, atoms tiny
To shining stars and galaxies many.
All that have had a birth and all that evolve
Sometime must all dissolve.
Thou art the grand Mystery behind impermanence,
The final dot that ends each word and sentence.
The breath that lulls at last the lungs for certain,
The rope that at last closes the cosmic curtain.
From here below to up on high,
Of the grandest show Thou art the final sigh.
When on Thee I meditate
I grasp much better my earthly state.