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The bride waits at the door, and the groom has won her by fate—may his effort now be to honor her hand through marriage.
O bee! You lack beauty, fragrance, or sweetness—yet you boast of nourishing lotuses. Your buzzing deceives all.
He plays among golden lotuses, but if he prefers muddy pools and frogs, can he still be called a swan?
All think the moon on Shiva’s head is serene—but none know the inner fire burning behind his tranquil eyes.
The ocean protects women and children by remaining distant—its very vastness hides horrors beneath the waves.
True greatness does not bloom under tyranny or petty rulers, but it manifests through compassion, in noble hearts amidst adversity.
Even in harshness, a mother plucks flowers, not arrows, to teach her erring children—what appears cruel is rooted in love.
The western sky, streaked with twilight clouds, reflects in the ocean like a rich tapestry—dusk paints the sea with crimson grace.
Once played in joy by damsels, the waters now roar under buffaloes—innocent laughter replaced by brute cries.
If one discards gems as worthless amidst the sea’s violent waves, the ocean itself loses its meaning—treasures need discernment.
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