Rādhā: A mirror in hand, a flower in my hair,
Sūrm of my eyes, tāmbūl of my mouth,
Musk on my breast, a necklace about my throat,
All the gear on my body, the life of my house.
Wings to the bird, and water to fish,
Life of my life—I know Thou art these—
But tell me, O Mādhav, what art Thou in sooth?
Avers Vidyāpati: Each is both.
CXXXVI.
Rādhā: What would you ask of my feelings, my dear,—
Can I expound such love and affection
As are moment by moment transformed?
From the day of my birth I have seen His beauty,
And yet are my eyes unsatisfied:
My ears have continually heard His honeyed speech,
But I have not attained the path of audition.
Many a night have I passed in play,
And never have learnt what is dalliance:
Myriad aeons I held Him close to my heart,
And yet no rest has reached that heart.
How many a one tormented and passion-tost
I have seen—without seeing!
Vidyāpati says: For your heart's ease
You have met with One who is nonpareil.
CXXXVII.
Kavi: Hearken, O Mādhava, what more can I say?
Nought can I find to compare with love:
Though the sun of the East should rise in the West,
Yet would not love be far from the worthy,