你的手镯真是美丽，镶着星辰，精巧地嵌着五光十色的珠宝。但是依我看来你的宝剑是更美的，那弯弯的闪光像毗湿奴的神鸟展开的翅翼，完美地平悬在落日怒发的红光里。
它颤抖着像生命受死亡的最后一击时，在痛苦的昏迷中的最后反应；它炫耀着像将烬的世情的纯焰，最后猛烈的一闪。
你的手镯真是美丽，镶着星辰般的珠宝；但是你的宝剑，呵，雷霆的主，是铸得绝顶美丽，看到想到都是可畏的。
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of.
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