नादे नारदतुम्बुराद्यविनुते नादान्तनादात्मिकेनित्ये नीललतात्मिके निरुपमे नीवारशूकोपमे ।कान्ते कामकले कदम्बनिलये कामेश्वराङ्कस्थितेमद्विद्ये मदभीष्टकल्पलतिके मां पाहि मीनाम्बिके ॥ ६ ॥
In plain words
You are sound itself, hymned by Nārada, Tumburu and the rest — the sound that still sounds where sound ends. Eternal, formed like a dark-blue vine, beyond all comparison, fine as the bristle at the tip of a wild rice grain. Beloved, Kāmakalā, you live in the kadamba grove and sit on Kāmeśvara's lap. You are the knowledge that is mine, the wish-granting vine of everything I long for — protect me, Mother Mīnāmbikā.
Close to the Sanskrit
O Sound; O one praised by Nārada, Tumburu and the others; O one whose essence is the sound at the end of sound; O eternal one; O one whose form is a dark-blue creeper; O incomparable one; O one whose likeness is the awn-tip of wild rice; O beloved; O Kāmakalā; O dweller in the kadamba grove; O one seated on Kāmeśvara's lap; O knowledge that is mine; O wish-granting creeper of what I desire; protect me, O Mother Mīnāmbikā.