The one who forgot his own joy and fixed his mind upon another,
At the hour of ending, it is they who became defeated,
Left behind are those foolish men,
Who could never reach their long-desired Vrindavan.
Among the crowd of men, there yet remains a kind,
Whose greed is vast, unyielding,
They must succeed,
Even if it means placing their foot upon another’s neck,
Or slaughtering the faith of another.
Such men ever use those devoted to others’ happiness,
And the foolish-hearted never perceive it.
The cunning disguise themselves as kin,
And when gain is done, they push them away,
Leaving them abandoned,
Fashioning for them a desolation of loneliness.
Yet if those foolish men once more receive a chance,
Again they sacrifice their very soul for the cunning.
What else could they do?
With tender hearts they are bound to remain ensnared,
Fallen into plight, rendered helpless.
And finding this chance, the cunning use them again and again,
While the foolish kind, though they know it, refuse to believe,
Refuse to admit,
Refuse even to deny.
This divide of mankind, the parallel stream of folly and cunning,
I know, has flowed from the beginning without cease,
And its end is none.
It shall flow on into eternity,
As long as the earth bears breath upon its breast,
So long shall it remain.