When the thought of the conscious soul is bent on the practice of folly
In the waters of the mirage it is swept headlong where water there is none.
It is swept away in the waterless torrent, and no where finds a foot-hold.
Now here now there it is plunged in the torrent, again and again it returns once more.
Girdhar the poet cries, To whom can I make my praye
When bent on the practice of folly are the thoughts of the conscious soul?