॥॥
In plain words
Birth again, death again, lying again in a mother's womb; in this saṃsāra, so very hard to cross, by Your grace, O Murāri, protect me and bring me to the farther shore.
Born once more, dying once more, lying cramped in a mother's womb: across this endless saṃsāra, in Your compassion, take me swiftly, O God. (Bhaja Govindam)
Students, embodiments of Prema!
Every being that is born, and every object, too, that has taken on a gross form, cannot escape change and cannot escape passing away. Between this birth and death, through six modifications such as these — some pains, decline, perishing, undergoing change and living — the thing we call life stays caught between this birth and this death. Yet on what kind of path we set this span between being born and dying, and how we gain the fulfilment fitting to our life: that is a question every human being has to inquire into. Truly, to anyone who has inquired as deeply as this, a kind of detachment, too, is bound to come. A person who has gained such detachment sees, and feels, a kind of disgust, too, for this attachment, and in a certain mood he can speak like this:
Thinking wicked thoughts over and over, playing blind games again and again, playing your sham games for a body that will drop away, the moment your prārabdha is spent, you cast off your false disguises and die, laden with your merit and your sin, O rogue!