You wished to go into this world of creation, where words cavort like restless desire, or flow as the selfless spring of some mind-born son— so you remain indebted to that grey afternoon.
A tingling ache has spread across my chest, the melody of an ancient ballad in the oil lamp's gentle light, and at the end, only the gathered wonder of forest maidens remains.
Still there are words that hold human tenderness— mirage, the pain-laden wetness of jasmine blooms.
To live as a beggar before youth is no act of courage. So I abandon the adorned life-dream, the garden estate… cherished desires.
Who are these that surround us? Are they shadows? Or the pull of countless harvests left behind in autumn's secrecy?
The search for cool refuge's presence— merely cluttered thought, complexity's gift.
Soul-companion, you too were intoxicated in that blue on radiant days, and there was infinite glory through all eight watches.
Autumn days, almost thoughtful, give their distant response, though there was indeed a proper stirring around happiness.
Since clarity of essence is otherwise in that nobility, the mind's transformation deep and dark with sorrow-laden truth.
The chakora bird, completely life-scorched, holds grief in its grasp, once content and auspicious-faced, no longer harsh.
Acceptance of gain, the torn-share condition, friend, only absorbed, absorbed wind that never becomes wet.