শ্রী চিদম্বর পঞ্চচামর স্তোত্রম্

Ten verses in the panchachamara metre — the strict light-heavy alternation that gives the hymn its steady tread — every one closing on the same line, I contemplate in the lotus of my heart the teacher of the world, Chidambara. The first sets him among domestic pleasures rather than austerities: fond of the kadamba grove, at play with Chidamba, eager at the fondling of his own child whose face is bound to the temples of a rutting elephant, breaker of the deceitful Kama, holder of the good rain-bearing river. The second turns to his hands: the bracelet bound on his own hand for the nourishing of all devotees, whose glory of fame is renowned, who has thrown off the misfortunes of good people, holding the means of release in his hand, the moon for an ornament on his head.