She cometh again, O Uṣas! She cometh eternal, undying, forever the same! Each night she doth vanish; each morning she is reborn. The cycle turnsendlessly round and round, and she is the center of that turning wheel.

We mortals are born, and we live for a season, and then we die. Our days are numbered; our strength fadeth like the morning mist. But thou, O Uṣas, art exempt from all such decay. Generation after generation passeth away, and still thou dost come forth in thy beauty.

The father seeth thee rise; he groweth old and dieth. His son, in turn, seeth thee rise; he too groweth old and dieth. The grandson seeth thee rise; the great-grandson seeth thee rise. And still thou art young, still thou art fair, still thy golden light spreadeth across the earth with the same radiance as on the first day of creation.

We are fleeting as the shadow of a cloud upon the waters. Here we are, and then we are not. But thou remainest; thou art eternal in thy cycling. Every morning is thy triumph; every dawn is thy victory over the dark.

How strange it is to contemplate! We live among the immortals—Indra, who slayeth the demons; Agni, who dwelleth in every fire; Soma, who conferreth enlightenment. Yet among all these mighty gods, thou, O Uṣas, dost move with a different kind of power—the power not of force, but of constancy; not of strength, but of eternal renewal.

Art thou envious of thy eternal youth, O Uṣas? Dost thou ever grieve for the mortal creatures who age and wither? Or dost thou look upon us with compassion, knowing that even our brief years are illumined by thy light?

Perhaps it is enough that thou art what thou art. Perhaps it is enough that thou dost come again and again, never failing, never faltering. For in thy constancy, we mortals do find some small consolation. Though we shall pass away, still the Dawn shall come. Though we shall return to dust, still the Day shall be born anew.