। ॥ ९५ ॥
In plain words
O Mother, whoever lifts folded hands to his own forehead for you — crowned kings bow to that one, crown after crown in a row. And whoever praises you, Mother, in words that are the living vine of consciousness — that one the unshaken seers carry up and up.
Close to the Sanskrit
Whoever places folded hands upon his head for you, O Mother — kings bow to him with their row of crowns. Whoever praises you, O Mother, with speech that is the creeper of consciousness — him the steady seer-poets lead upward.