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Flowers bloom, autumn arrives—people rejoice, but I grieve, for it only reminds me that my life is diminishing.
Spring comes and goes bringing joy and pain like a bee—yet you, my goddess, remain the only constant in my heart.
Water comes and goes, lotuses shiver, the chakravāka bird roams madly in the night grieving separation from its mate.
Beauty approaches subtly through eyes and breasts, utterance begins with skilled laughter, but the naive girl cannot match the goddess Lakṣmī.
He arrives with staggering steps, pale face, sweaty brow, stammering speech—clearly suffering guilt.
One who avoids eye contact, trembles, and looks down is guilty—such signs should be studied carefully.
If a dog rushes joyfully forward, rolling about—it foretells that travelers will soon receive wealth and abundance.
Let joy or sorrow come and go—yet you remain the presiding deity of my heart, like Lakṣmī to a lotus.
If a servant returns avoiding eye contact, sighs falsely, and blames others—do not reenter that household, for it hides inner disrespect.
The beloved returns after much longing, but during idle chatter with attendants, the slender lover extinguishes the lamp with shy haste—symbol of sile...
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