ÁLOKER EI UTSAVE
SABE ÁCHE, TUMI NÁI
GAUNGODAKER ÁSAVE
GAUNGÁDHARE NÁ PÁI
SABE ÁCHE, TUMI NÁI
DHÚRJAT́II JAT́Á MELECHE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
DHÚRJAT́II JAT́Á MELECHE
KÁMPIYE ÁKÁSHA VATÁSE
SABE TÁŃD́AVE DHVANICHE
VRTHÁI VEŃUKÁ BÁJÁI
SABE ÁCHE, TUMI NÁI
TRIKÁL EKETE MILECHE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
TRIKÁL EKETE MILECHE
MATTA ÁVESHE DULICHE
ANÁHATA DHVANI BHÁSICHE
ÁR KENO GÁN GEYE JÁI
SABE ÁCHE, TUMI NÁI
ÁLOKER EI UTSAVE
SABE ÁCHE, TUMI NÁI
O Lord, on this festivity of light, all are present except You. Even in the essence of
Ganges water, I do not find Gangadhar, Shiva. The tufts of Shiva is spread, quivering the
sky and netherworld with the sound of Tand’ava, I uselessly play the flute. All the
three aspects of time merge into One, and with frenzied impulse swings. The internal sound
floats and as such how can I continue singing?