Oh daughter of the mountain,
How can we describe the beauty of your chin,
Which was with affection caressed,
By the tip of his fingers by your father Himavan:
Which was oft lifted by the Lord of the mountain, Shiva,
In a hurry to drink deeply from your lips,
Which was so fit to be touched by his fingers,
Which did not have anything comparable,
And which is the handle of the mirror of your face.
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