Springtime having come, it has gone on whispering:
"Hear my words, Bud. Today do not blossom.
You'll get anguish; the Dear One will not come.
That Mind-King, pain He will not fathom.
Like fire He will burn in psyche;
Staying far away, with dance He will drive crazy.
He will smile sweetly, but He won't yield;
He will make you weep, that same Shameless One.
He'll play on a bamboo flute in ragas unparalleled;
With rhythm and song, a sweetness the best.
Pouring that He will leave, He'll sadden inconsolably;
At unseen place He will stay, the Three Worlds'[1] Overlord.
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