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Friendship with the unlettered, talk with the ignorant, and intimacy with the harsh—all cause pain, not pleasure.
The same milk appears differently: as curd, as whey, as sour buttermilk. So too the moods of beloved women—one source, many expressions.
Love (Kāmadeva), without a body, conquers the world with five flower arrows—highlighting the strange power of unseen emotions.
In winter, lotus stems shiver under unwanted touches; better they carry Spring’s heat than passionless affection—yearning for true warmth.
Behold, O Cupid (अनङ्ग), the grey hair on my head—this is now the victory flag. Your arrows no longer affect me; I have conquered you through age and ...
Shiva, pierced by Cupid's arrows, bows at Parvati’s feet. Even a humble ant walking there seems to kiss the moon-like brilliance of her toes.
When will that slender woman’s side glance, which adorns Cupid’s marriage hall, embrace me and fulfill my longing?
The playful glances of beloved women, Cupid’s realm, repeatedly generate an inner fire of longing and restlessness in young men.
Her breasts, like ceremonial pots at Cupid’s wedding, are enclosed by her soft palms—removing the suffering of love from whosoever beholds them.
Her rounded hips are the golden platform of Cupid's love sport—a concentrated mass of beauty and sensuality.
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