Bewitcher of the Destructive Lord,
for Your own amusement
clapping Your hands.
You with the moon on Your forehead,
really You are primordial, eternal, void.
When there was no world, Mother,
where did You get that garland of skulls?
You alone are the operator,
we Your instruments, moving as You direct.
Where You place us, we stand;
the words You give us, we speak.
Restless Kamalakanta says, rebukingly:
You grabbed Your sword, All-Destroyer,
and now You've cut down evil and good.
[Translated from 'Singing to the Goddess: Poems to Kali and Uma from Bengal' by Rachel Fell McDermott]