I fall at your feet, Dark One, in the Brij,
Turn back, turn back, I implore.
I fall at your feet, O Shyam,
Turn back to the Brij's shore.
The lonely shade of Kadamba trees now yearn,
For the flute's lost, sweet call.
Will the Brij drown, consumed by grief,
As Yamuna's waters fall?
Turn back, turn back.
Who breaks the milk-filled earthen pots,
O Murari, who now?
With tears, the milkmaids' vessels fill,
At the sacred ghat somehow.
Turn back, turn back.
Mother Yashoda weeps with a broken heart,
Nandaji lost in despair.
Think, O pitiless one, and heed the pain,
Each grain of Brij cries there.
Turn back, turn back.
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