Infinite are his pastimes, infinite his deeds, infinite his power, infinite his glory and infinite his miracles — no poet can ever write them all.
His greatness is boundless, his majesty boundless, his eminence beyond all measure; boundless is his profundity, boundless his dignity — what poet could ever determine it fully?
Just as a bird flies on the strength of its wings to try to reach the far edge of the sky, yet that measureless void has no end, and the bird surely meets its own destruction — so are the deeds of Maharaj: if they are indeed boundless and infinite, then however much one tries to tell them, they cannot be told; this is certain and beyond doubt.
A man who wishes to fathom the end of the infinite by reasoning alone, and believes he has succeeded, is being extremely foolish.
Just as one might imagine counting the stars, the specks of dust on earth, or drops of water, the leaves of the forest, the hairs on every body, or the raindrops from every cloud — someone might indeed find an end to all of these; but no one could ever find the end of Hari's deeds, even after a thousand tries.
That before which speech grows weary in describing, before which the mind grows weary in contemplating, before which the very heart grows weary in reflecting — know this for certain, all of you.
Having taken the incarnation of Harikrishna, he performs infinite, boundless pastimes: he rises, sits, speaks, looks, eats, moves, walks, Hari laughs, and plays; he sleeps, wakes, asks for things, comes and goes, and stands still; he walks with a graceful, playful gait, making charming gestures with his hands.
He speaks, listens, takes and gives — how can one describe one whose very feet are sipped in devotion?
He is worshipped and accepts worship, serves food with his own hand, showing great love toward his devotees; he wears and gives garments and ornaments — all his deeds bring happiness.
He renounces and causes renunciation, scolds and praises, honors and persuades, informs and knows; he brushes his teeth and washes his face, wipes his mouth with a fine cloth; he rubs oil and perfume on his body, bathes in warm water, the Beloved.
Whatever actions belong to this ocean of grace, worthy of being recorded, this friend of the humble — sometimes slow, sometimes swift his footsteps, his gait captivating the mind.
He becomes angry, becomes pleased, stays content, keeps things, foretells something of past and future; he frightens, is frightened, shows fear, keeps and has kept, settles things well.
He reasons beyond the reach of intellect, holds meditation, follows knowledge; he sings, has others sing, breaks into melody, listens, has others listen, explains through gesture.
Whatever pastimes Bhagwan performs, all are worth recording indeed — always to be heard and always to be told, all worthy of being pondered and considered.
Dhoti, upper cloth, silken shawl and brocaded robe, fine trousers, a saffron turban with golden border, adorned with a fine plume that steals the heart.
Rings on fingers, bracelets on wrists, cashew-shaped ornaments, adorning wrist and upper arm; a diamond chain, ornamental clasp and necklace adorn every part of his body.
Earrings, a crest ornament, and a plume in the ear, a crown on his head, a golden thread about his neck; golden chains hanging down beautifully, and a pearl necklace placed around his throat.
Sandal paste and saffron scent applied, bouquets, garlands, and armlets, a garland of flowers on his chest beyond price — Maharaj wore these.
He sits swinging on a swing, the merciful one, receiving worship and arti; whatever pastimes the imperishable one performed, all these, O devotee, are worth recording.
Kesu flowers, saffron, and crimson color were prepared with great affection and care; color upon color, red powder and gulal filled bags, and the red-drenched company played.
The playful Beloved plays exceedingly, coloring bodies among themselves; seeing this, people forget bodily awareness, and fall into samadhi within.
Moreover, they see far lands and regions, and the constant love of his devotees is revealed.
Such pastimes are infinite and boundless — how could one ever come to the end of telling them?
Elephants, horses, chariots and carts, sedan chairs, palanquins, and litters — whatever vehicle the Beloved rides, how could these be forgotten?
Cots, platforms, couches and chairs, wherever Shrihari sat joyfully — he performs both worldly and extraordinary play, and no telling of it can ever be complete.
He in whom a million universes dwell within a single pore, a million poets, suns, moons, and Somas — that very Master took on a human form and plays, Govind, with his companions.
He whose darshan is rare for all, gives darshan to so many people; above and below, the wise, the celestial vehicles, and celestial women behold Bhagwan.
From Shwetadwip, Vaikuntha, and Goloka, the liberated souls come and behold him; having had darshan, they go to their own abodes, having attained supreme happiness and rest.
The Beloved gives happiness to us, and men and immortals alike receive it; he gives joy in this world and the next — how could this go untold?
He performs pastimes upon this earth — blessed is the land where he treads.
Blessed is the ground where he played and wandered and stayed — where can one find such dust to touch?
Blessed are the shades of mango and tamarind trees where Hari sat and held assembly; blessed are the mountain caves, gardens, and forests wherever Bhagwan wandered.
Blessed are the rivers, ponds, step-wells, and wells where the happiness-formed Shyam bathed; blessed are the sacred pilgrimage sites and pure abodes where the beautiful, dark-hued one wandered.
Regions, countries, cities, villages, and hamlets where Hari wandered without fault; upper rooms, mansions, terraces, and dwellings where the Beloved made his stay.
Many bungalows, mansions, and ponds where Hari stayed in joy — wherever my Beloved made his dwelling, how could that go untold?
He met yogis, enjoyers, and kings, some matted-haired ascetics, some shaven-headed, wearing garlands; pirs, fakirs, wandering ascetics, scholars, pandits, and reciters of the Puranas — wherever he met and debated with them, he won and made the disputants bow at his feet.
Shaivas, Shaktas, Vaishnavas, and Vedantins — their hearts became troubled by him.
Many souls who were in dire straits found the Master and became blessed; giving them darshan and touch, he removed the sins and afflictions of sinners.
Some sacrifices and sacred-thread ceremonies, some perpetual alms-houses where the sadhus ate; weddings, musical celebrations, and wedding processions where he went and became a guest.
Fine festivals and celebrations were held there — how could these be counted and told?
In every region he showed miracles, turning many souls toward him.
Even if one were to try to remember and record it all, having a hundred hearts like Brahma's, one would not have a tongue like Shesha's, nor speech and eloquence like Sharada's.
One does not have hands like Lambodara's for writing, nor ears like Prithu's for hearing; one does not have the lifespan of Lomasha, nor as much wisdom as Brahma's own.
One is not a poet like Valmiki or Vyasa, who could illuminate every virtue.
Even such immensely capable ones, oceans of wisdom with vast contemplation — even their words, when heard, leave everyone standing in awe of the unfathomable.
Where do they stand, and where do we stand — like comparing the sun to a firefly?
With brief lifespan and meager intellect, meager power, lacking full understanding — whatever has been said here, imperfectly, with much effort, may it be received well or ill, as it may be.
There remains a longing to say more, but these eyes have grown dim; there was great ambition in my heart to record the beautiful pastimes of Shyam.
But as long as life remains, this tongue will speak of Swami Sahajanand — what else could it speak of, caught in this deep attachment within?
These ears will hear no other utterance, these eyes will see no other form; this skin will not touch anything else, this nose will not take in any other fragrance.
This mind will contemplate nothing else, this intellect will show no devotion to any other; this heart will not think of anything else, this ego declares, "I am Hari's own."
This head will not bow to any other feet, this heart will hold no other meditation; these hands will not fold before anyone else, these feet will not walk any other path.
So as long as breath remains in this body, I shall not give up this fixed devotion; may this body fall while singing Hari's praise — in this my mind finds its joy.
Blessed are the ears pleased by Hari's fame, blessed the skin that touches Prabhu's feet; blessed the eyes that behold Hari's form, blessed the tongue that speaks Hari's glory.
Blessed, blessed is this whole assembly, through which Maharaj is pleased.
This matter lies beyond ordinary account — the ordinary soul cannot fathom it.
He who is beyond mind, speech, and comprehension, that very complete Purushottam, has taken a human body and wanders about, Jivan, out of love for his people.
Singing of his pastimes and deeds, one's being is bathed as if in pure water and glory.
Therefore I shall tell of his name, deeds, and power — I shall not let this birth go to waste.
Whoever lives according to their own dharma, I shall tell of them all, recalling them; singing of these exceedingly sacred deeds, I cannot bring myself to stop.