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There’s no room in her heart, already full with her bosom’s fullness—none left for us. A poetic expression of rejection in love.
Her braid, though restrained, draws bees like flowers do. Her vermilion sparkles like molten iron—inviting, mysterious.
Her sculptor was surely a master—her body shaped like poetry, her breath scented by the southern breeze, and her voice melodious like a bird’s fifth n...
Her bun sits where her face should be—her hair adorned like a plume rivals even the best feathers of peacocks.
In the creation of her beauty, was it the Creator himself? Was it the moon with its gentle glow? Or Cupid, master of desire? Perhaps the season of spr...
Surely neither the Creator, nor the Moon, nor Cupid, nor Spring could have created her. Perhaps, like Lakshmi herself, she emerged from the churning o...
The tilaka on her intoxicating eyes shines like fresh vermilion. Her face radiates such compelling charm that it seems as though my heart has become a...
As her sweat loosens the tilaka, and her face gleams like the moon, the bouncing ball she plays with in rhythmic tandava-like movements bewilders the ...
Upon her lap, as lightning-like radiance shines, even the form of Vishnu seems to be manifest in her golden presence—decked in yellow garments, peacoc...
In her body-lake, arms are lotuses, face a lotus, brows like bees; youth the water and musk the mud. The elephant of my mind, furious and enchanted, d...
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