In the realm of mystic grace,
Mother Lalitha's presence fills the space.
With betel leaves she weaves her art,
Drawing the four quarters, each a part.
From the east, where the sun does rise,
Her fragrance lures the ignorant's eyes.
Saffron's golden hue, a beacon of light,
Igniting desires, blind and out of sight.
To the south, where passion burns bright,
Cardamom whispers, a subtle invite.
Knowledgeable souls need no such call,
Their devotion strong, they stand tall.
In the west, where wisdom seeks its way,
Cloves unfold secrets, night and day.
The enlightened find her with open hearts,
Guided by love, they never depart.
In the north, where purity finds its place,
Camphor's essence, a divine embrace.
Those who seek her in humble devotion,
Find solace and peace in tender emotion.
Kastūri, with its musky charm,
Tugs at the souls, be it near or far.
Nutmeg and mace, their scents combine,
Awakening senses, divine and fine.
Oh, Mother Lalitha, goddess of grace,
With betel leaves, you enthrall this space.
Knowledgeable hearts, you draw them near,
With devotion true, they feel you're here.
Yet ignorant minds require your sway,
Fragrance's lure to find their way.
In this world of illusions, they strive,
Drawn by your scent, they begin to thrive.
Oh, Mother Lalitha, your grace profound,
With betel leaves and fragrant compound,
You beckon all souls, both wise and naive,
To your divine embrace, where all can achieve.
-Mani
