Mira danced with ankle-bells on her feet.
People said Mira was mad; my mother-in-law
And one of the elders of the city said, \
“Neither do I condemn thee,”
O words of wondrous grace;
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Old Grey Squirrel might have been
Almost anything —
Chuckling, Kanha came crawling,
Trying to catch His reflection
If you want what visible reality
can give, you're an employee.
The dagger of love has pierced my heart.
I was going to the river to fetch water,
And the priestess spoke again and said: "Speak to us of Reason and Passion."
And he answered saying:
"Have you ever made a just man?"
"Oh, I have made three," answered God,
Thirst is angry with water. Hunger bitter
with bread.
Listen, my friend, this road is the heart opening,
kissing his feet, resistance broken, tears all night.
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued m
For God, our God is a gallant foe
That playeth behind the veil.
If the day is done,
if birds sing no more,
In the depth of my soul there is
A wordless song - a song that lives
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
How long will you think about this painful life?
How long will you think about this harmful world?
Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Oh! the quiet river-crossing
Where we twain were wont to ride,
In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:
First Self: Her
To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
Any lifetime that is spent without seeing the master
Is either death in disguise or a deep sleep.
At midnight an angel was crossing the sky,
And quietly he sang;
Krishna said, 'O fair beauty, who are you?
Where do you live? Whose daughter are you?
THE river and its waves are one
surf: where is the difference between the river and its waves?
I carve my defiant, raging pulse
In basalt rock on the Mount of Skulls,
Krishna went playing in the lanes of Braj,
a yellow silk garment round his waist,
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.
Welcome Christmas once again!
Come blizzard, snow or rime – it
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