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For a moment, the people saw the icy moonbeam dispel the mist of darkness—perhaps Ganesha himself appeared in the sky.
If a divine life is revealed even slightly, it illuminates vast peace and radiant serenity within.
Her lips resemble buds, hands lotus blossoms, her body the bow of Cupid, and her eyes the ultimate charm.
Amid the music and her soft murmuring, with eyes closed in love’s play, I silently admire her divine beauty.
Even if rising from its cause, the water within a pot spins like a wheel—just as her breasts radiate circular brilliance.
“Let no quarrel arise”—yet ego disrupts union. Conflict emerges from the illusion of separateness in love.
Anger is a violent forest, argument a graveyard, hatred a thief—it burns virtue like wildfire.
In false modesty during a quarrel, she hid her shivering form, but the tearing cloth revealed her inner longing.
She is short, dark or yellow, with hanging lips, flat nose, and sagging breasts—yet delights in endless quarreling.
Intoxicated, he causes quarrels, abandons duty, earns scorn, and wastes wealth—descending into disgrace.
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