O daughter of the mighty mountain, you are the delight of the earth and the joy of the universe, praised by Nandi and honored by the victorious. Dwelling atop the lofty Vindhya, you playfully engage with Vishnu and are revered as the consort of Shiva, whose throat gleams blue. Mother of many, creator of abundance, you are the destroyer of Mahishasura, your beautiful locks framing the face of the mountain’s child. You bestow blessings upon the gods and conquer even the unconquerable. With patience, you endure the insolence of foes and rejoice in happiness, nourishing the three worlds. You are the delight of Shankara and the remover of impurity, fierce in battle and enraged at the offspring of demons. You destroy the arrogant and are the daughter of the ocean, ever victorious, ever radiant, ever the slayer of Mahishasura. Mother of the world, my own mother, you love to dwell in the fragrant Kadamba groves, radiant with laughter. Amidst the lofty peaks of the Himalayas, you reside in your own abode, sweet as honey. You destroyed Madhu and Kaitabha, rejoicing in the dance, and again, you are hailed for your victory over Mahishasura. You shattered the heads of hundreds and crushed the trunks of elephants, leading the mighty beasts. Fierce in battle, you tore the cheeks of enemy elephants and, with your arms, felled the chiefs of warriors, splitting their heads and crushing their skulls. Your valor knows no bounds, and victory is yours, O slayer of Mahishasura. Intoxicated with might in battle, you destroy enemies with unconquerable weapons. You are the supreme leader of Shiva’s hosts, the messenger of the great Shiva, and master of the Pramathas. Ruin comes to the wicked through you; you shatter the hopes and minds of evil demons, and you are the very thought of death for the messengers of the arrogant. You grant fearlessness to those who seek your refuge, especially the heroic hands of the husbands of enemy wives. With your pure trident, you strike down the heads of adversaries of the three worlds, and your fierce arms resound with the thunderous drumbeats of the gods. With a mere utterance of your roar, you dispelled hundreds of Dhūmralocana demons, dried up the blood-seed lineage of Raktabīja on the battlefield, and delighted in the destruction of Shumbha and Nishumbha in the great war, satisfying the spirits and ghosts. Your golden bracelets flash as you string your bow in the heat of battle, and your arrows pierce the yellow-skinned warriors, felling the leaders of hostile armies. With clever strategy, you direct your fourfold forces, while your troops, in many formations, roar in the fray. You are the delight of the gods, and as you dance with expressive gestures, your waist sways gracefully. You keep time with the rhythmic clapping of your hands and the beat of the mace, delighting in melodious song. The deep, steady sound of the drum and the vibrant notes of the mṛdaṅga resound as you rejoice. You are praised with chants of triumph and words of acclaim, O universally worshipped one. The jingling of your anklets and the ringing of your ornaments enchant the lord of beings. You delight in the graceful dance, accompanied by skilled dancers and melodious music. Adorned with radiant beauty, you are charming to the noble-hearted. Your face shines like the moon amidst the night, O lotus-eyed one, whose glance is like a swarm of bees circling the lord of lotuses. Surrounded by mighty wrestlers in the great arena, you engage in battle with strength and skill, accompanied by groups of warriors and hunters. You are adorned with garlands of blossoming flowers and fresh, tender leaves, shining with youthful radiance. O princess, daughter of the king of elephants intoxicated by the ceaseless flow of ichor from their temples, you are a treasure of arts and the ornament of the three worlds. Ocean of beauty, royal maiden, your enchanting form captivates the hearts of lovely women and stirs the passion of love. Your spotless brow shines with the delicate radiance of a lotus petal, adorned with the purest crescent moon. You are the abode of all graceful arts, moving amidst flocks of playful swans. Your hair is adorned with clusters of bakula flowers mingled with garlands of bees swarming around blue lotuses. Your sweet nature puts to shame the cooing of cuckoos, as the melody of your flute enchants. You dwell in the forest groves on the mountain, where the charming songs of the Pulinda women resound. Your playground is filled with noble Shabara women, whose own virtues are your ornaments. Your waist is adorned with a yellow silk garment, and your brilliance outshines the moonlight. Your toe-nails, shining like the crescent moon, reflect the jewels on the bowed crowns of gods and demons. Your breasts surpass the rounded temples of victorious elephants and the peaks of golden mountains. You are praised by the thousand-handed Indra, whose thousand hands you have subdued. You are the daughter of the one who defeated the demon Taraka in battle, and you are born of the one who conquered Taraka. You are honored by Suratha and Samadhi, whose devotion is equal and steadfast. He who worships your lotus feet daily, O abode of compassion, surely becomes Shiva. O lotus-eyed one, O dwelling place of Lakshmi, how could he not attain that state? If I contemplate your feet as the supreme goal, O Shiva, what would not be accomplished for me? He who bathes the stage of virtues with golden, pure waters from the ocean surely experiences the joy of embracing the banks of Shachi's breast. I seek refuge in your feet, O Shiva, dwelling among the bowed gods. Your pure lunar lineage, your moon-like face, illuminates everything. How could the moon-faced beauties of Indra's city turn away from you? If you grant me the wealth of Shiva's name through your grace, what more could be desired? O Mother, out of compassion for me in my distress, you must show your mercy. O Mother of the world, be gracious as you are, and let your nature be experienced as it is. Do what is fitting here, O destroyer of enemies, and swiftly remove my suffering. Victory, victory to you, O slayer of Mahishasura, O beautiful-haired one, O daughter of the mountain! Thus ends the hymn to Mahishasura Mardini.