Sunday, July 26, 2020

Eying the target

(1652)  Bakul bichano pathe

On a path, bakul-littered,
Come this day, oh my Beloved.
Only for Your sake do I await,
Garland strung, Peerless One.

With the flowers is my nectar
Amid petals rosy colored.
Hoping for Your advent, on that resin
Mind drifts aloft, just like pollen.

Naught do I covet in Your presence;
Mine already is the Formless Gem.
Ever seeking at core of the psyche,
I will surely find You, my Darling.

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