Tarry not, O Cloud. Bow thy head. Thou art come to the foot of the Himalaya, from whose peaks, white with everlasting snow, springs the Holy Mother Ganga. Tarry not, O Cloud, ascend the mighty pass. With thee come those who are free from sin, journeying to their last home in the sacred city on Mount Kailasa.

And hark! Afar off thou canst hear the singing maidens, chanting the praises of their Lord. The sound is mingled with the music of the wind-blown reeds growing at the riverside. Ascend ever higher. Tarry not, O Cloud. Thou has reached the snowy peaks of Kailasa.

Behold the sacred city, round which flows Ganga, like a maiden's robe clinging to her form. There the vast temple-spires reach up to kiss thee, glitt'ring with jewels that shine like thy rainbow. There the gentle breeze that bears thee onward is heavy with incense and the fragrance of the lotus. There in the temple are the dancers, fair as thy bride the lightning, their tresses bound in jasmine, their dark eyes flashing with joy as they greet thee.

There at even the minstrels assemble, to sing the praises of the Lord. And see! The great God himself whose tread shakes the mountains, he descends, and begins his solemn dance. O Cloud, great is thy honour. Join thy deep voice to those of the singers, let thy thunder rolling o'er hill-tops, echoing through caves, beat out the measure for the dancing of him who holds the three worlds in his grasp.

Yet tarry not, O Cloud, tarry not.