O Mādhava, your love is peerless!
The fire of sundering from herself devours her body in its flames,
I doubt if she may live.
Her friends are filled with grief, so sadly she regards them,
The tears are pouring from their eyes:
The cry of 'Rādhā, Rādhā,' echoing repeatedly,
She murmurs broken words.
When she is with Rādhā, she thinks that she is Mādhava,
And when with Mādhav, Rādhā:
And even so, this bitter love may not be broken asunder.
The pang of separation hurts her more and more.
Just as a tree both sides aflame quite utterly consumes
Some wretched insect's life:
In such a plight, Vallabha, I saw the nectar-face,
Says Vidyāpati.
XCIX.
Rādhā: Where wanton Murāri is wont to sit,
There write my name or twice or thrice:
Lay by his side the jewels from my body,
This is my life's last prayer!
And all the number of my friends, write ye my name,—
Kind was my darling, only fate was cruel.
I die indeed, for Kānu's sake:
Seek some occasion to ask news of him.
Once on a day let my beloved write my name,
And pour the lustring water with his rosy hands!
Hearken fair damsel, says Vidyāpati:
Be patient of heart, you shall meet your Murāri!
C.
Rādhā: Hari has gone to Mathurā town.
And Gokula is void to-day,
My ribs are all shrunken with weeping,
The cows are roaming on the road to Mathurā.