Those who are born in this terrible age of Kali, who though akin to the crow in their doings have put on the garb of a swan, who tread the evil path, abandoning the track of the Vedas, who are embodiments of falsehood and repositories of sins of the Kali age, who are impostors claiming to be devotees of Ýr¶ RŒma, though slaves of mammon, anger and passion, and who are unscrupulous, hypocritical and foremost among intriguers—I occupy the first place among them. Were I to recount all my vices, their tale will assume large dimensions, and yet I shall not be able to exhaust them. Hence I have mentioned very few. A word should suffice for the wise. Entering into the spirit of my manifold prayers, none should blame me on hearing this story. Those who will raise objections even then are more stupid and deficient in intellect than myself. I am no poet and have no pretensions to ingenuity; I sing the glories of Ýr¶ RŒma according to my own lights, My intellect, which wallows in the world, is a poor match for the unlimited exploits of the Lord of Raghus. Tell me, of what account is cotton in the face of the strong wind before which even mountains like Meru are blown away? Realizing the infinite glory of Ýr¶ RŒma, my mind feels very diffident in proceeding with this story. (1—6)