Saturday, July 19, 2014

My cruel Lord

(62)  Nayane esechile svapane

In dream, You are coming within my sight.
What is this peekaboo game of Yours?
On awakening, You have gone off alone.
What is this cruel sport of Yours?

In my sky, You are the brightest star;
In my mind, You are the lamp of effulgence.
In Your absence, the cobra is without its precious jewel.[1]
Unbearable, unbearable is this loneliness.

With light and shade and a rainbow of colors,
What is this gala that makes my mind oblivious?

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