In plain words
Man is born, grows, declines and passes away: is this all that human birth means? Is there no higher meaning? Or is it not a sacred life? No one inquires into this.
In childhood, keeping company with many, he is absorbed in games and songs; when youth arrives, like the god whose bow is of flowers, he roams about, infatuated with women; in middle age, sunk in the things of this world, he clings to the earning of wealth; when old age comes, not thinking of Murahari, he frets, ‘I have neither this nor that’; unable to give up his many evil habits, with no wish to seek the path to Mukti, he crawls along, fallen in the mire of karma: man mingles his birth with the dust.
Young people, whose faith in God will not take root, fall into a measure of delusion, doubting whether God exists or not. This faith in God, too, comes only to those who have faith in other births; it cannot come to everyone. Today the people of Bhārata cannot believe even in this matter of other births. A small example. Some become poets the moment they are born. Some grow into singers. Others grow into artists. In just this way, for such attainment and such a taste to settle in their hearts the moment they are born, whose practice was it, whose training? One's own vāsanā from other births is the root cause of all such growth. You may argue that this comes from each one's own keenness; but you may well consider what the difference is, when those who have such keenness practise twice every day and still find no chance to learn such things, while others receive such arts the moment they are born.