In the depths of my thought with sweetness,
Humming, a sprout of myrtle sings.
It simply does not look at suppressed agony;
Sound it does not find on my veena strings.
I hear that He had come in the wildfire of summer,
With bakul and bela under heat intense.
In the screwpine pollen on a monsoon current,
Having come, He'd gone; heedless, that I did not see.
He had been embellishing with shephalii in fall;
At prewinter He'd been mixing with glacial frost.
I don't want to see, and so there is no vision;
That fault of mine, I did not consider it, neglectfully.
Beneath cold wave of winter I'd been in a state worldly;
I saw not that He is in the snow with white purity.
At spring, between the pain, on a nighttime sweet,
I had been overwhelmed; where He is I did not seek.
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He was always by my side; with Him I've missed so much time!
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