jaṭāṭavīgalajjalapravāhapāvitasthale gale'valambya lambitāṁ bhujaṅgatuṅgamālikām. ḍamaḍḍamaḍḍamaḍḍamanninādavaḍḍamarvayaṁ cakāra caṇḍatāṇḍavaṁ tanotu naḥ śivaḥ śivam.
He who, wearing on a throat hallowed by the falling stream of Ganga from the forest of his matted hair a great hanging garland of serpents, danced the fierce tandava to the damaru's damad-damad — may that Shiva spread our good.
jaṭākaṭāhasambhramabhramannilimpanirjharī-vilolavīcivallarīvirājamānamūrddhani. dhagaddhagaddhagajjvalallalāṭapaṭṭapāvake kiśoracandraśekhare ratiḥ pratikṣaṇaṁ mama.
On whose head the restless creeper-waves of the heavenly river toss in the whirling cauldron of his locks; on whose brow the fire burns dhagad-dhagad; who wears the young moon — in him be my love at every moment.
dharādharendranandinīvilāsabandhubandhura-sphuraddigantasantatipramodamānamānase. kr̥pākaṭākṣadhoraṇīniruddhadurdharāpadi kvaciddigambare mano vinodametu vastuni.
Whose mind delights to see every quarter lit by the ornament of the mountain king's daughter at her play; the hard turn of fortune held back by the flood of his merciful glance — in that sky-clad one let my mind take its joy.
jaṭābhujaṅgapiṅgalasphuratphaṇāmaṇiprabhā-kadambakuṅkumadravapraliptadigvadhūmukhe. madāndhasindhurasphurattvaguttarīyamedure mano vinodamadbhutaṁ bibhartu bhūtabhartari.
The tawny light from the jewels on the hoods of the serpents in his hair lays saffron on the faces of the maidens that are the quarters; rich in the upper garment of the rutting elephant's hide — in that lord of beings let my mind take wondrous joy.
sahasralocanaprabhr̥tyaśeṣalekhaśekhara-prasūnadhūlidhoraṇīvidhūsarāṅghripīṭhabhūḥ. bhujaṅgarājamālayā nibaddhajāṭajūṭakaḥ śriyai cirāya jāyatāṁ cakorabandhuśekharaḥ.
The ground of whose footstool is grey with the pollen from the flowers on the heads of Indra and all the devtas; his matted hair bound with the serpent king's garland — may he who wears the chakora's friend bring me lasting fortune.
lalāṭacatvarajvaladdhanañjayasphuliṅgabhā-nipītapañcasāyakaṁ namannilimpanāyakam. sudhāmayūkhalekhayā virājamānaśekharaṁ mahākapāli sampade śiro jaṭālamastu naḥ.
That matted head which burnt the five-arrowed one with the sparks of the fire blazing on the altar of its brow, before which the lord of the devtas bows, its crest bright with the nectar-rayed moon — may the great skull-bearer's head bring us wealth.
karālabhālapaṭṭikādhagaddhagaddhagajjvala-ddhanañjayāhutīkr̥tapracaṇḍapañcasāyake. dharādharendranandinīkucāgracitrapatraka-prakalpanaikaśilpini trilocane ratirmama.
Who offered the fierce five-arrowed one into the fire blazing dhagad-dhagad on the plate of his terrible brow; sole artist of the painted leaf-work on the breast of the mountain lord's daughter — in the three-eyed one be my love.
navīnameghamaṇḍalīniruddhadurdharasphura-tkuhūniśīthinītamaḥprabandhabaddhakandharaḥ. nilimpanirjharīdharastanotu kr̥ttisindhuraḥ kalānidhānabandhuraḥ śriyaṁ jagaddhurandharaḥ.
On whose neck is marked a darkness like the impenetrable spreading black of a new-moon midnight ringed with fresh cloud; wrapped in the elephant's hide, made lovely by the store of digits, bearer of the world's burden, holder of the heavenly river — may he spread my fortune.
praphullanīlapaṅkajaprapañcakālimaprabhā-valambikaṇṭhakandalīruciprabaddhakandharam. smaracchidaṁ puracchidaṁ bhavacchidaṁ makhacchidaṁ gajacchidāndhakacchidaṁ tamantakacchidaṁ bhaje.
Whose neck is graced by the mark whose beauty follows the dark radiance of a mass of open blue lotuses; cutter of Kama, of Tripura, of the world, of the sacrifice, of the elephant, of Andhaka, of Death — him I adore.
akharvasarvamaṅgalākalākadambamañjarī-rasapravāhamādhurīvijr̥mbhaṇāmadhuvratam. smarāntakaṁ purāntakaṁ bhavāntakaṁ makhāntakaṁ gajāntakāndhakāntakaṁ tamantakāntakaṁ bhaje.
The bee that drinks the swelling sweetness from the nectar-stream of the kadamba spray that is the art of all-auspicious Parvati; ender of Kama, of Tripura, of the world, of the sacrifice, of the elephant, of Andhaka, of Death itself — him I adore.
jayatvadabhravibhramabhramadbhujaṅgamaśvasa-dvinirgamatkramasphuratkarālabhālahavyavāṭ. dhimiddhimiddhimiddhvananmr̥daṅgatuṅgamaṅgala-dhvanikramapravartitapracaṇḍatāṇḍavaḥ śivaḥ.
Victory to Shiva, on whose brow the terrible fire spreads and leaps as the serpents whirling in his wild play hiss it out; whose fierce tandava moves to the grave auspicious beat of the mridanga sounding dhimi-dhimi.
dr̥ṣadvicitratalpayorbhujaṅgamauktikasrajo-rgariṣṭharatnaloṣṭhayoḥ suhr̥dvipakṣapakṣayoḥ. tr̥ṇāravindacakṣuṣoḥ prajāmahīmahendrayoḥ samapravr̥ttikaḥ kadā sadāśivaṁ bhajāmyaham.
When, holding stone and fine bed alike, the serpent and the pearl string alike, the costly jewel and the clod, friend and foe, a blade of grass and a lotus-eyed girl, the common people and the great king of the earth — when shall I adore Sadashiva?
kadā nilimpanirjharīnikuñjakoṭare vasan vimuktadurmatiḥ sadā śiraḥsthamañjaliṁ vahan. vilolalolalocano lalāmabhālalagnakaḥ śiveti mantramuccaran kadā sukhī bhavāmyaham.
Dwelling in a hollow of the thicket by the heavenly river, freed of ill thought, hands always joined above my head, my restless eyes brimming, fixed on the fair-browed one, saying the mantra 'Shiva' — when shall I be happy?
nilimpanāthanāgarīkadambamaulamallikā-nigumphanirbharakṣaranmadhūṣṇikāmanoharaḥ. tanotu no manomudaṁ vinodinīmaharniśaṁ paraśriyaḥ paraṁ padaṁ tadaṅgajatviṣāṁ cayaḥ.
May the radiance of Shiv ji's body — lovely with the honey that drips from the jasmine woven in the hair of the women of Indra's city — the highest seat of all splendour, delight our minds day and night.
pracaṇḍavāḍavānalaprabhāśubhapracāraṇī mahāṣṭasiddhikāminījanā'vahūtajalpanā. vimuktavāmalocanāvivāhakālikadhvaniḥ śiveti mantrabhūṣaṇā jagajjayāya jāyatām.
May the sound "Shiva", adorned by the mantra — auspicious as the blaze of the undersea fire that burns away sin, called out by the women who are the eight great siddhis, the cry raised at the wedding of the doe-eyed Parvati Maa — be for the victory of the world.
imaṁ hi nityamevamuktamuttamottamaṁ stavaṁ paṭhansmaranbruvannaro viśuddhimeti santatam. hare gurau subhaktimāśu yāti nānyathā gatiṁ vimohanaṁ hi dehināṁ suśaṅkarasya cintanam.
The one who daily reads, recalls and tells this highest of praises as it is spoken here stays always pure, and swiftly comes to good love for Hara the guru; he does not go the contrary way, for right thought of Shankar undoes the delusion of embodied beings.
pūjāvasānasamaye daśavaktragītaṁ yaḥ śambhupūjanaparaṁ paṭhati pradoṣe. tasya sthirāṁ rathagajendraturaṅgayuktāṁ lakṣmīṁ sadaiva sumukhīṁ pradadāti śambhuḥ.
Whoever at the close of the evening puja reads this song of the ten-faced one, given to Shambhu's worship, to him Shambhu gives lasting, kindly fortune — with chariots, elephants and horses.