The hanging fruit of the high tree gladden my heart— they that were born in the wind’s wild play, forever spinning in the gaming pit.

Even as a draught of soma from the mount of Mūjavant, so doth the waking vibhīdaka nut delight my soul.

She set not her face against me, nor grew wrathful; she showed favor to my fellows, and to me as well.

Yet for the sake of one die too many, I have cast aside my true-sworn wife.

My mother hateth me; my wife turneth her back.
A man cast low findeth no hand to lift him.
Men say, “What worth hath a gambler? No more than a spent nag on the block.”

Another layeth hands on the wife of the man whose goods the dice, with eyes agleam, have lusted after.

Father, mother, and brothers say, “We know him not—bind him and lead him away.”

Oft I say, “I shall play no more.” But my comrades leave me, and as soon as the brown dice leap and speak,

I turn again unto their place, like a maiden unto her love.

The gambler goeth to the house of play, heart full of boast:
“I shall win! I shall have it all!”
Yet the dice heed not his wish, but cast the winning throw unto his foe.

They are but dice—but they hook the soul, they sting, they shame, they burn.
They give, like a babe in play, then strike down the hand that taketh.
They are sweet to taste, yet rule the man like kings over a thrall.

Three times fifty they be, a troop in play.
Like the rulings of god Savitar, their laws stand firm.
They yield not to the wrath of the mighty; even the crowned head boweth low before them.

They roll downward, yet leap aloft. Though they have no hands, they master him that hath.

Heavenly embers they are, cast into the gaming ground— cold to touch, but they burn the heart.

The wife of the gambler is left to weep; his child strayeth, and no soul knoweth where.

In fear, in debt, in hunger for coin, he creepeth by night to another man’s hearth.

It seareth his spirit to behold another man’s house well kept, his wife well cared for.

From early light he yoked his brown horses— but the young ox lay down only at night’s far end.

And now the gambler crieth out:
“To him who leadeth your host, ye brown ones, your prince and master— unto him I stretch forth both my hands:

I keep back naught. I speak truth before you all.” Then came Savitar’s voice, as a friend to the lost:
“Play no more with these dice. Till thy field.
Be glad in thy lot, and reckon it great.
Thy kine are thine, O gambler; thy wife awaiteth thee.
So speaketh Savitar, ward of the wanderer, and setteth a guard over me.”

O ye dice, be kind to us.
Let us be at peace. Look not upon us with wrathful eyes.
Let your warlike hearts be stilled, your bitter mind be eased.
Let some other soul now bear the net of the brown ones.

4o