The yogi in his wisdom understands
He’s not his senses, feelings, mind or hands,
But as conductor of an orchestra,
Bends all these functions to his least commands.
O Son of Kunti, shun the falsest friend
Of transitory pleasures that depend
On senses seeking joy outside the Self—
A pleasure that begins must always end.
A yogi, he, who calmly shows his worth,
By manifesting Heaven here on Earth.
Mastering every impulse of desire,
He lives a life of bliss in Divine mirth.
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