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The desire for grain drives tilling; hunger drives effort. Even ornamentation is pursued to gain beauty or pleasure.
Man toils endlessly—sowing, weaving, building—all for the sake of quelling the fire of hunger in the belly.
In the harem of the Kalinga king, shameful acts are performed by noble women, like creepers twisted by vile trees—such is downfall.
Everything from her slender waist to lips is meaningless without your name adorning her face—it alone makes her flawless.
Even a mango, surrounded by bitter leaves, becomes distasteful. Likewise, the sweetness of love is ruined by surrounding bitterness.
With false pomp, other women try to claim attention, but the real object of beauty descends—capturing all with silent grace.
The sweet battle of bees, cuckoo, flowers, and spring winds wage a war of delight in the garden—love stirs with each fragrance.
As moonlight and champaka flowers torment her, the breeze whispers her love’s name—what remedy is there, friend, for her pain?
With a gurgling coo and swirling eyes, the pigeon flies in desire and tries to kiss his beloved.
O cuckoo, stop your song—don’t envy Saraswati’s lute or her poetic melodies, for even bees echo her lips' sweet music.
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