(198) Amar e manoviina chandahiina
This my mental lute is rhythmless;
It will sound only when He plays it.
A melody made to mingle with His tune,
It will have to be, to play upon the lute.
In every psychic state, He simply smiles;
When offered seat, He does not sit beside.
Where does heart's laughter go floating off...
In some land exotic, oh it just gets lost!
Eyes gaze toward Him, but He fails to submit;
He dances away with melodic magic.
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How I yearn to play with Thee, but it seems that You won't have me!
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