Phagun
In Vrindavan’s forest bowers,
In birdsong, in arrows of flowers,
In the intoxicating flute-notes
That stir the heart’s deepest core—
What pull is this? Radha knows:
The heart—bewitched. ​
The warmth trembles in the sky,
The yearning of Phagun’s sigh,
The restless ache of early spring,
Your hand resting upon mine.
What pull it is ? Whose smile it is—
The heart—aching. ​
At evening’s dusky hour of farewell,
Spring bursts forth in colours;
Flame-bright palash whispers low,
“You are mine,” my heart knows.
What pull it is? Whose song beguiles—
The heart—yearning. ​
At twilight, in the secret mind,
I reach to touch a ray of sun—
It feels like your smile again,
Soft as truth, tender as rain.
What pulls us close?
Love knows. The heart—wild.
