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May the lord of Vrindavan, with red eyes and enchanting dark form surpassing a crore of Cupids, dwell in my heart today.
Her tear-filled eyes, like red flowers, remind me of her anger—a blooming creeper blushing with inner sorrow.
Even spring days laced with fragrance and music only deepen the pain of separation from a beloved.
The wind moves lazily through spring forests, sipping sweetness, carrying the scent of blooming flowers—and awakens memories.
Spring’s goddess appears adorned with red flower-bow eyes, dusky complexion, and ornaments of Kashmiri saffron—stirring desire.
The southern wind approaches, dancing with red new leaves and fragrance—enticing even restrained hearts into playful madness.
Traders should travel with traders, soldiers with soldiers—even in villages, let like reside with like.
The gods churned the ocean for nectar but produced poison too—such are great beginnings, which test with trials.
Her glances bring such sensations—are they garlands, camphor, sandal paste, or icy rain? How can one even describe love’s expression?
Cupid’s bow has started bending again, but the beloved’s weakness from separation prevents its full draw—thus love and pain interweave.
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