Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and
cunningly wrought in
myriad-colored 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 fame 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.