The pain of clinging cuts so deep,
Grief burns like an endless fire.
O Bhagavan!
Alas… Rama!
If we are born, we must depart,
There is no cure for death’s return.
If we had never come—how peaceful that would be.
So the Blessed One has taught:
Speak gently of the dead,
Praise their virtues, let faults be forgotten.
Why think beyond this truth?
My weary mind is spent.
O Bhagavan!
Alas… Rama!
Sorrow weighs heavy in my chest,
My vision clouds, my world dissolves.
All I once called “mine”
Slips away, untethered.
Even love becomes a memory,
A faded echo of joy now lost.
Does grief itself turn to sin
When happiness has fled?
Why think beyond this truth?
My weary mind is spent.
O Bhagavan!
Alas… Rama!
The coconut oil lamp glimmers,
Yet one day the wind will snuff its flame.
Other lamps still burn,
Weeping for the one extinguished.
But those very lamps
Were lit by its fire.
Why think beyond this truth?
My weary mind is spent.
O Bhagavan!
Alas… Rama!
O Bhagavan!
Alas… Rama!
