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While Kama’s arrow kissed the moon’s face in the night sky, jealous lotuses withered in shame as bees buzzed their discontent.
The swan, practicing sounds amidst the flowing stream, produces sweet melodic tones, its voice guided by rhythm and rising waves.
In this world, the essence of wisdom arises only when days flow sweetly along the banks of the poetic Mandakini.
In the nectar-lake of beauty, surely Manmatha, scorched by Shiva, fell—his flame now rises as a smoky trail from her navel.
To that thief of death itself, the lord joyfully granted mountains of gold and elephants for his unmatched bravery.
His arms, stretched wide in strength, smashed enemy forts, his chest adorned with regal glow, gate-like doors helpless before him.
For the victory of this brave one, Kamadeva armed his arrows and made even fame itself uncertain—such was his power.
Lakshmi seems stolen by his eyes—but perhaps it is not new! What lotus did he whisper into her ear? I do not know.
His knowledge dances on the tongue, extending like the essence of all scriptures, determined to conquer all eighteen fields of learning.
O young woman! At the banks of the curved river, Kama entered your beauty—your breasts now are like golden jars, ready for offering.
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