When You did not appear,
In vain is the hair-braid tied!
Then fruitless is decor of light,
And useless the melody plied.
Fruitless then sacred painting made from rice,
And just useless staying well-attired.
In vain is tracing lamp-black lines
Or stringing blooms to gratify.
Age after age for sake of Thee,
I am awake, hey my Darling.
With an endless impetus of feeling,
Crossing all blockade am I.
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You are the beat of my drum.
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