Will-o'-the-wisps

(387)  Prabhu dhara ki kabhu debe na

Lord, won't You ever let me touch You?
How many ages will pass imagining Thee,
And is there no end to the reverie?

Worn down by blows from illusion and delusion,
I have lost my stored-up fragrance and pollen.
Like a fallen flower I lie at my nadir;
And now I know not what the future brings.

To no avail the transitory was pursued,
I'm bone-weary from chasing ignis fatuus.
Clasp my hand, and take me back;
Don't let me succumb to ignorance.

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