Play the game, O rival of mine. You are smeared with your own filth; wash your face and your backside. As she played the game, Hari came along; rise now, O bride of the Lord of the world. Hands and legs go limp, and as the backside drags, it gathers dust. Five and seven more were brought along by Hari; how long can you last without them, girl? Your breath is spent, your legs have given way; why do you still try to spin around? Says Tuka, even now, do what you have been told, you stubborn fool.