On blue ocean's rows of waves,
Whose message floats, pray tell me.
Each moment I have heard His fame,
But never Him did I see.
On daybreak's eastern sky is His splendor,
Essays on Him painted by the evening's color.
On mind's firmament His matted locks undone
Are vibrant in a hundred streams.
When earth was not, when there'd been naught,
No pulse was there, filled with vigor.
There were no emotions, making anxious;
He alone existed, imperceptibly.
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Only Sadashiva, the Supreme, crafts our story.
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