Friday, February 15, 2019

Lady at night

(1247)  Nayane varasa ela

In your eyes the rains, they came;
Why so, my doe-eyed maiden?
You've plucked flowers, rehearsed strains;
But lo He still doesn't come!

Stained red from the betel leaf,
Your lips, their speech, it is weak.
With what despair at twilight,
You don't don evening attire?

You are gazing toward the sky;
Braided tresses, You've untied.
With meters Mandákrántá,[1]
You don't make the peacock dance;
You don't sound the conch of dusk.

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