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At the burning-ghat, O Kali,

Mother divine and dread,

See, I am waiting with open lips

Over the newly dead.

I am childless and barren; pity

And let me catch the soul

Of him who here on the kindled bier

Pays to Existence toll.

See, by his guileless body

I cook the bread and eat.

Give me the soul he does not need

Now, for conception sweet.

Hear, or my lord and husband

Shall send me from his door

And take to his side a fairer bride

Whose breast shall be less poor.

Oft I have sought thy temples,

By Ganges now I seek,

Where ashes of all the dead are strewn,