The people, as a matter of rarest fate, happen to be born
as mother, father, children, born with them as brothers
and sisters; and relatives die with grief among themselves
without making any efforts to attain the heavenly abode,
Are born again and again and also die in their turn,
It is nothing but for the default weep for wages!
What is the use of being born in this earthly world?
Every one should do virtues while they are young!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem