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As night falls, the lonely chakravāka bird—separated from her mate—wanders by the riverside, muttering sorrowfully of having tasted lotuses and cool w...
The poet creates poetry, the scholar savors its meaning—but only the lover knows the intimate firmness of his beloved’s bosom, not her father. A contr...
The poet composes verses, the scholar discerns their beauty, but only the husband truly knows the charm of his beloved—never the father.
The poet creates verses, the noble person nurtures them; as the tree bears flowers and the breeze carries their fragrance.
The poet is like a father to poetry, the patron a protector, the lover a relisher—but only the wise are like brothers to her, with pure intentions.
The poet births poetry, good people internalize it; just as the ocean gives pearls and youthful breasts nourish with milk.
What use is poetry if kings ignore the poet’s needs? What use are eyes if maidens don’t catch a young man’s glance?
I bow to Māgha, whose poetry opens like jasmine, conquers pride, breaks arrogance, and inspires reverence with his sublime verses.
Poetry, like a beautiful woman, delights every mindful person. Her rasa (essence) dances around the world.
A miser, without honor, cannot appreciate poetry—what can an impotent man do in the presence of a doe-eyed beauty?
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