My knowledge of astrology has grown immense, People say my calculations never err hence.
When the new year comes, what will be its fate, I calculate and tell you straight.
Twelve months a year, three hundred sixty-five days, This time too it will stay the same—wise to think this way.
If all the ocean's water doesn't dry away, The rhythm of tide and ebb won't hide today.
If moon and sun fall to Rahu's devouring might, Eclipse will surely come—know this, all who have sight.
If ruinous drought doesn't strike this year, Canals and streams will fill, rivers running clear.
If the plow tills and prepares the earth, By farmers' sweat crops will prove their worth.
If life remains then death won't come, Through hundred perils they'll live on!
Disease will break the body, make some ill, Some will recover, others death will kill.
The day when someone's lifespan ends complete, Then will their life-breath make retreat.
Once dead, they won't return to life again, This truth will hold without refrain.
Children will be born to new life blessed, Some will be boys, some girls at their mother's breast.
Wherever weddings happen, I've counted and can see, In number they'll be equal—groom and bride-to-be.
Through shortcuts and countless ways, students all, Desperate to pass, will study nonstop till they fall.
Yet exams won't fulfill everyone's dream, Some will succeed while others face defeat's sting!
Countless souls will be trapped by lending money, Distrust brings ruin, trust brings honey.
Whatever fortune each person's fate may bring, Some will enjoy, some lose everything.
Without seeking free paths to earn their bread, Crowds will crave government jobs instead.
The year will pass with intellectuals in crisis of thought, Market fires will rage—burning white-hot!
Art will lose value terribly, goats will fetch high price, The helpful face Saturn's curse, gather blame not nice.
Though want of food and clothing grows all around, Some folk will still live as free kings crowned.
This shore will strike that shore with waves so wild, Some will struggle drowning, some drift lost like a child.
Old passion won't fill many hearts anymore, They'll demand easy divorce, protest and roar.
Women will advance further, grow more aware, Men will wonder, "What's happening? My heart's still Indian, I swear!"
Which literary star will bloom in heaven's dome, When time comes all will see—best to stay quiet at home.
Public health reports I'm keeping on the shelf for now, How can I give away such service free somehow?