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Everything that rises—moon, time, tree fruits, rivers—must eventually fade or return, a poetic reminder of impermanence.
Though the sun rises and dispels darkness, new darkness returns—just as the brave are tested by recurring challenges.
When the moon-like Brahmin rises, joy fills hearts—so much that even lotus shrinks in modesty before divine beauty.
When transcendent truth arises, the ego dissolves into nothingness—who can explain such pure awareness, even among the learned?
When you appear like the moon, the faces of rival women weep ceaselessly, as camphor melts in moonlight.
Even at your rise, O king, enemies spread slanderous darkness, just as sunlight draws forth opposing shadows.
One should aim west when the sun rises and east in the afternoon—symbolizing focus inversion at different life stages.
My heart is torn by your eastern winds and even your courier’s greetings—though others’ praises sound hollow.
Even when the sun rises, it cannot warm the icy mountains—like a lamp atop a butter-filled bowl, it fails to light.
Though trembling and shy before her beloved, her beauty revealed itself through hesitation—love triumphs over fear.
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