Deep in the petals of sacrifice desire stirs like a grub.
Like a tree, hope grows alone, by the solitary riverbank.
Ignoring all these grubs and trees, on what path do I turn to practice, Mother?
The worship of desire—this I've been performing day and night since childhood! Now, on the threshold of youth, how can I lose myself in desireless devotion?
Mother, the warmth-tenderness-affection of your breast, the taste of fever-dried kisses drawn from my wayward body— it's because I receive these that my existence burns so dear.
Tell me yourself, Mother, if I must abandon these enchantments how will I live? O Mother, leaving you to what exile shall I go...to find heaven?