Classic Poem

When wilt thou sing the praises? The life is passing away.
A million plans thou hast made for Maya: never, O fool, hast thou found satisfaction.
Thy childhood lost in playing: in youth thou didst grow proud.
In the clutches of desire, of anger, and coveting: thou didst not learn to know thyself.
In infirm old age, the phlegm has choked thy throat: beating thy breast thou dost bewail.
O Sur, if Syama but cast one glance upon thee, thou wilt cross the stream of the world.