Savitṛ, the golden-handed! As the day descendeth and the sun droppeth below the western horizon, thou givest thy final command. Thy voice, though silent to mortal ears, soundeth throughout all creation: It is time to rest.

And all things obey. The herds cease their grazing and move toward the shelter of their folds. The birds return to their nests, their songs fading into the twilight. The workers in the fields lay down their tools and turn their faces toward home. The warriors sheath their weapons. Even the wind groweth gentler, growing quiet as if in reverence for thy word.

Thou art the master of rhythm, O Savitṛ! The day that thou hast impelled forward with unstoppable force must now yield to the night. Even thee, in thy golden power, must submit to the turning of the heavens. Nothing escapeth the cycle that thou hast ordained.

In the darkness, all creatures find their peace. The exhausted body rests. The troubled mind grows still. The soul receiveth healing in the profound silence of the night. This rest, too, is thy gift, O golden-handed one. Thou knowest that life requireth both motion and stillness, both the blazing effort of the day and the gentle surrender of the night.

We lie down at thy command, grateful for the day that thou hast granted us. As the darkness deepeneth and the stars emerge, we rest in the knowledge that thou watchest over the sleeping world. And when morning cometh, thou wilt impel the sun forward once again, and all shall awaken to begin anew.

We bow before thee in the gathering dusk, O Savitṛ. Thou art the breath and heartbeat of the world itself.