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Krishna, crying as if a child, rests on a Gopi's chest, having just mischievously kissed and teased—blending divine play with childlike innocence.
Who doubts that her lips are nectar? Sweeter than honey or grapes. Let an unbiased connoisseur decide which is sweeter.
Only a connoisseur of emotions can truly appreciate the sweetness of her lips, firmness of her breasts, and sharpness of her eyes—this is poetic matur...
Let my mouth be guilty of kissing her lips, not my head, for it could not even reach her feet—expressing deep passion and reverence.
The sweetness of Krishna’s flute, carrying the essence of his lips, brings joy to deer-eyed women and sages alike.
Her lips cure bile, her bosom calms wind, and constant union destroys phlegm—her body is a remedy for all three doṣas. A hyperbolic praise.
Her smile with red-tinted lips conceals the whiteness of her teeth, yet reveals them again with its brightness—a beautiful interplay.
Her lip, pressed and swollen from biting like a serpent’s coil, has disturbed my mind like the ocean stirred by the Mandara mountain.
The red color of beetle leaf on her lips, kajal in eyes, and fine silk dress—these are the real ornaments for young women; others are mere accessories...
A drop on her lip, a necklace on her neck, and moonmarks on her breasts hint that her lover is a master of love’s science.
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