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The birds flew up chasing flesh; yet the slain souls may still hover, looking at their bodies struck by weapons.
One who remembers Ganga at the moment of death, with reverence, attains the highest liberation.
The moon, veiled in darkness, disrupts my playful rendezvous—turning silence into despair, blocking joys with shadows.
Lamps raised, anklets silenced, silk pushed aside—everything readies for union, yet the city sleeps under heavy night.
The mighty bow of Shiva was lifted, shaken, and finally broken during Sita’s swayamvara—defying doubt and declaring valor.
My friend points to the mango buds, whispering of your majestic rise—like a lover reaching toward the highest fruit.
The silvery peaks, reaching toward space, reflect sacred waterfalls—offering spiritual purity across the sky.
Even elephant-trained warriors fail; their lives taken before the king’s court by fierce sword strikes.
The souls of slain warriors ascend heavenward while their earthly forms remain—glorifying the divine sacrifice.
The tiny bird lifts its feet to stop the sky from falling—an example of imagined pride found in all beings.
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