O Lord touch us with your Divine Touchstone,
Free us from mind’s disease, and morbid moan,
While in Naught’s garden we seek illusion’s fruits,
Pray you to convert our evils into hood,
Be kind enough to spoil our coveted happiness,
Curse that may appear, but that’s the ultimate bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem