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Spring is in full bloom—tender leaves, lotuses, full moon—yet the traveler’s gaze, ignited by love, finds it all bitter, like poison.
The heron leaps, flutters, then steadies its aim. Mid-jump, it dives, capturing its fish prey—a mark of calculated instinct.
Ravaged by age, the once-mighty lion who scaled mountaintops now licks his paws—red-eyed and humbled. Time humbles all.
Frogs emerge from corners, crawling in erratic patterns, croaking with half-closed eyes—an eerie scene of monsoon chaos.
A headless ghost flees, bloodied and sword-slashed, frightened again by a soldier mid-battle—an intense, surreal image.
The twilight sky cracks like the skull of a demon trampled by Hari’s tusks—red clouds fall like shattered gems.
O Gauri, like the golden pollen of blooming lotuses, may your grace fulfill my cherished wishes.
Shiva, tightly embraced by Parvati with her blooming lotus-face and swollen breasts, purifies even in intimate union.
Fools chatter happily, loudly and unrestrained. Only poets understand the exhaustion behind another poet’s craft.
When will I see baby Krishna, face blooming like a lotus, gently kicking with his soft lotus feet while suckling from his mother?
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