Mother, am I Thine eight-months child?
Thy red eyes cannot frighten me!
My riches are Thy Lotus Feet,
which Shiva holds upon His breast;
Yet, when I seek my heritage,
I meet with excuses and delays.
A deed of gift I hold in my heart,
attested by Thy Husband Shiva;
I shall sue Thee, if I must,
and with a single point shall win.
If Thou dost oppose me,
Thou wilt learn what sort of mother's son I am.
This bitterly contested suit between the Mother and Her son --
What sport it is! says Ramprasad.
I shall not cease tormenting Thee
Till Thou Thyself shalt yield the fight
and take me in Thine arms at last.
[Translated by Elizabeth U. Harding]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Really a loving poem of Ramprasad on his mother, and our mother!