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As youth rises like a bright sun and innocence like a gentle moon fades, the breasts like cakravaka birds unite at riverbanks of desire.
The pale moon, like a ball of butter, rises laughing from the Eastern hill, reflecting the soot on night’s mouth.
If the sun rises in the west, mountains move, and fire freezes—yet noble speech never repeats itself; it remains original.
As the sun spreads golden rays and sets in snowy lands, the mountain seems like an elephant swinging twin bells.
The moon, glowing like a lover’s cheek, lights the royal path like a lamp among stars—its beams drip like milk from heaven.
Let me never fall into the hands of one without shame, compassion, or fear—delicate as I am, like a bakula bud.
Her darting eyes, though shy, flutter to see her husband rising—like a miser’s eyes dancing during charity.
Let clouds rise, let rain fall endlessly—my heart sees nothing but my beloved’s face.
The rising sun bestows beauty upon lotuses and prosperity upon all who revere it—an emblem of noble giving.
The sun of dawn, famed as the Lord of radiance, is the master creator of countless divine manifestations.
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