The ardent devotee cries and waits,
His dictionary needs no rise and sunset.
No condition of good luck and fate merits his worth,
Save the love of God, -he has no meaning of the birth.
To him the senses' parasites are deceiving games,
For the tempest of God's love kills away name and fame.
The ardent devotee waits and cries,
With failures and success he tries and tries,
He bears with the pains and drudgery of the path,
As the burning aguish of God realization flames his mirth.