Devoid of might, she leans upon the earth to rise,
All night she wends and wakes,
And starting suddenly, she murmurs 'Shiva, Shiva!'
Her fire has filled the earth.
I know not if there be a remedy.
Says Vidyāpati the poet:
Nought but the fated tenth-day plight remains,—
Be well-advised forthwith.
CXXIII.
Dūtika: She turns her face away from looking on the moon.
She stands and gazes piteously down the road;
With eye-collyrium she makes a painted Rāhu
And speaks with him in wrath.
Mādhava, unyielding heart, delaying abroad,
Her that you dallied with I have beheld all birdalone,
I pray you turn again to home.
How can the tender child support the southern zephyr?
For Love is doing her hurt:
Her breath has ceased, which hope sustained,—
With every finger she draws a snake.
Vidyāpati says: O Lord Shrvasimha,
This is the cure for sundering's sorrow—
Avoiding the koil, and taking sweets in hand,
Loudly to summon the crows.
CXXIV.
Rādhā: There was a time my lover leaned above my face in bliss,
Not for an instant would he leave my body:
He bound my flesh in a bond of measureless love,
Who now forsakes my company.
Why should I live any more, O fair sweet friend?
He without whom I could not rest for a moment,
Is filled with the love of another.