Genesis

The source of all things was a single spark,

A tiny speck in a timeless void;

Emptiness gathered, and atoms took shape;

From molecules’ movement, matter emerged;

Space curved around them, and spheres took form.

And the first stars shone, more fiery than flame.

The elements divided, each from the other;

The heaviest sank to the heart of the Earth,

And the lighter arose into layers above.

Endless rain brought the oceans to be,

And they scattered and swelled on the still-soft stone;

The world’s writhing and wrinkling wrought the long mountains,

Spread the broad plains and sank the deep valleys,

Made masses of air in the moon’s-way around them,

And divided the waters by warmth and cold.

From the ceaseless swirling of the soup primordial,

Life took shape, and lapped up its origin.

Such is the story the sages recount,

From the earliest era, of every known thing.

A mountain arose from the moving earth,

Looked down on the lake as the light new-dawned:

Bedecked with trees, aglow with herbs,

Rich in dark soil and bright gems gleaming.

The slope on each side was the same as the other,

Five fine faces of equal height:

A Himalayan peak marched down from its range,

A limb of the Goddess, from the Lord’s shoulder fallen.

The dwellers in Heaven proclaimed this mountain,

The saints and sages sang its praises,

Marked its faces and named it Pavagadh,

A name like its shape, suiting its grandeur:

A fitting place for the forts of kings,

A splendid seat, besieged but unsundered.

Long years it knew of wind and rain,

And the steps of giants, before the coming of men.

Sages sought solace on its slopes of old;

Then came the kings, and crimsoned its crest.

When out of breath,

In the grip of death,

I shall still find ways

To sing Pavagadh’s praise.