I die of thirst—it matters not
If Sindhu be but safe,
What if he leave us, and this spot,
Poor birds in cages chafe.
Peevish and fretful oft we are—
Ah, no—that cannot be:
Of our blind eyes he is the star,
Without him, what were we?
Too much he loves us to forsake,
But something ominous,
Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,
Says, he is gone from us.
Why do my bowels for him yearn,
What ill has crossed his path?
Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,
Or how avert the wrath?
Lord of my soul—what means my pain?
This horrid terror—like
Some cloud that hides a hurricane;
Hang not, O lightning—strike!"
Thus while she spake, the king drew near
With haggard look and wild,
Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,
Bearing the lifeless child.
Rustled the dry leaves 'neath his foot,
And made an eerie sound,
A neighboring owl began to hoot,
All else was still around.
At the first rustle of the leaves
The Muni answered clear,
"Lo, here he is—oh wherefore grieves
Thy soul, my partner dear?"
The words distinct, the monarch heard,
He could no further go,
His nature to its depths was stirred,
He stopped in speechless woe.
No steps advanced—the sudden pause
Attention quickly drew,
Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause,
But, hark!—the steps renew.