Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars
and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels.
But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning
like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu,
perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life
in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death;
it shines like the pure flame of being
burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems;
but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty,
terrible to behold or think of.