When I called you in your garden Mango blooms were rich in fragrance — Why did you remain so distant, Keep your doors so tightly fastened? Blossoms grew to ripe fruit—clusters — Your rejected my cuppded handfuls, Closed your eyes to perfectness. In the fierce harsh storms of Baisakh, Golden ripened fruit fell tumbling. ‘Dust, I said, ’defiles such offerings: Let your hands be heaven to them.' Still you showed no friendliness. Lampless were your doors at evening, Pitch—black as I played my vina. How the starlight twanged my heartstrings! How I set my vina dancing! You showed no responsiveness. Sad birds twittered sleeplessly, Calling, calling lost companions. Gone the right time for our union — Low the moon while still you brooded, Sunk in lonely pensiveness. Who can understand another! Heart cannot restrain its passion. I had hoped that some remaining Tear—soaked memories would sway you, Stir your feet to lightsomeness. Moon fell at the feet of morning, Loosened from the night’s fading necklace. While you slept, O did my Vina Lull you with its heartache? Did you Dream at least of happiness?