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The girl plays with her natural charms—her breasts, ornaments, eyebrows, eyes, and waistline forming traps of desire for her lover.
With trembling middle and fearful eyes, the shy beloved slowly approaches, tired from the burden of love and passion.
Her trembling breasts, wavering eyes, and alluring lips torment the lover—her body a script written by Cupid himself.
The garland from her breast area falls with river-like grace as Kalindi flows—uniting into a holy union where moon sheds stains.
During Krishna’s wedding, Lakshmi gazes at him with shy delight—his form reflected in her necklace, embodying divine love and grace.
Her mountainous bosom, wild as a forest, teeming with passion, is under the arrows of Kamadeva’s sidelong glances—whither shall my mind go now, O frie...
Frightened by lovers’ airy sighs, the garments flutter and fall—just like frightened birds crashing hastily into the waters.
Who can praise the tree on a rugged path whose shade offers rest? Is it past deeds, good karma, or inherent worth?
One who once enjoyed fruit atop the tree of wealth, but fell from grace—if he survives misery in the pit of poverty, it is indeed a marvel.
What use are tall, fruitless trees? Better the lowly shrub that helps save drowning people—value lies in utility, not size.
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