Some live in palaces, as I myself would like to do. O Mother, are these fortunate folk your grandfathers,[1] and I no relation at all?
Some wear shawls and comfortable wrappers[2] they have sugar and curds as well as rice.
Some ride in pāalkis[3] while I have the privilege of carrying them.
Mother, through what grain land of yours have I driven my plough?[4]
Prasād says: If I forget you, I endure the burden of grief that burns. Mother, my desire is to become the dust of those Feet that banish fear.
VIII. KĀLĪ'S SERVICE HAS MADE HIM A MENDICANT
No longer shall I call you Mother: countless ills have you sent me, Mother, countless ills are sending. I had home and dear ones, but you have made me a mendicant[5] What worse can you do, O Long-Tressed Goddess?
I must go from door to door, begging my food. Even though the mother dies, does not the child live still? Mother I cry, and yet again, Mother, but you are deaf and blind. While the mother lives, if the child suffers so, what is the use of his mother to him?
Rāmprasād says: Is this a mother's way—being the mother, to be her child's foe? Day and night I muse,
The commonest form of this poem is much briefer, bitterer,though less elaborately sarcastic:
'Well do I know thy kindness, ah! too well! Some go hungry after the day's toil; others carry rice in their belly, gold in their shoulder-cloth. Some ride in pālkis, others take the pālki-poles upon their shoulders. Some wear costly shawls, others rags and tatters.'