Where you step, smallpox turns to flower buds. Where you look, the child’s rash becomes turmeric paste. You carry neem leaves in your left hand, And a pot of buttermilk in your right. Sleep, O Mother, let no fever enter this village.
Where you step, smallpox turns to flower buds. Where you look, the child’s rash becomes turmeric paste. You carry neem leaves in your left hand, And a pot of buttermilk in your right. Sleep, O Mother, let no fever enter this village.
Where you step, smallpox turns to flower buds. Where you look, the child’s rash becomes turmeric paste. You carry neem leaves in your left hand, And a pot of buttermilk in your right. Sleep, O Mother, let no fever enter this village.