I remember Krishna, the jests he made, who placed his sport in the pastoral dance,
The sweet of whose nectar of lips kept flowing with notes of his luring melodious flute,
With the play of whose eyes and the toss of whose head the earrings kept dangling upon his cheeks.
I remember Krishna, the jests he made, who placed his sport in the pastoral dance,
Whose brow had a perfect sandal spot, as among dark clouds the disc of the moon,
Whose door-like heart was without pity when crushing the bosoms of swelling breasts.
Desire even now in my foolish mind for Krishna,
For Krishna—without me—lusting still for the herd-girls.
Seeing only the good in his nature, what shall I do?
Agitated I feel no anger. Pleased without cause, I acquit him.