Gita Govinda 2.3

Even the foe of Kaṃsa, holding Rādhā in his heart / as the chain binding him to worldly longing, abandoned the beauties of Vraja.

Having sought Rādhā here and there, his heart tormented by wounds from the arrows of the Bodiless One,
Mādhava, filled with remorse, sank down in despair in a bower on the bank of Kalinda's daughter.

Seeing me surrounded by a crowd of young women, she walked away;
and I, conscious of my fault and utterly terrified, did not hold her back.
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

What will she do? What will she say during this long separation?
What use to me is wealth, or people, or life itself, or home?
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

I picture her face, its brows knit with the weight of anger,
like a red lotus unsettled by a bee hovering above it.
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

I delight in her intensely day and night as she dwells in my heart;
why do I follow her in this forest? Why do I lament here in vain?
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

Slender girl, I know your heart is pained with jealousy;
I know not where you have gone, and therefore cannot appease you.
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

You appear before me; you do nothing but come and go;
why do you not grant me an eager embrace, as in the past?
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

Forgive me; I will never again do such a thing to you!
Show yourself to me, beautiful one; I am tormented by love!
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

This was composed by Jayadeva, devoted to Hari,
a moon born from the ocean of Kindubilva.
Alas, alas! Feeling slighted, she departed as if enraged.

This necklace on my chest is a lotus stalk, not the king of serpents;
this garland of blue water-lily petals on my neck has not the gleam of poison;
this dust of sandalwood is not ashes, on me who am fit to strike—
do not strike me, mistaking me for Hara! O Bodiless One, why do you rush in wrath?

Do not place that mango blossom arrow in your hand! Do not string your bow!
What manly valor is there in striking one who is already stunned, having conquered the universe in sport?
My mind, shattered by the shower of side-glance arrows fluttering with mind-born love from that fawn-eyed girl,
does not revive even a little, even now.

Let the side-glance arrow set upon the bow of her brow inflict a wound in my heart;
let her dark and winding mass of braid also strive to kill me;
and let her passionate, bimba-red lip spread confusion, O slender girl;
yet how is it that your well-rounded orb of breasts plays with my life?

Those pleasures of her touch, those fluttering, tender glances,
the fragrance of her lotus face, the sweet ambrosial curve of her words,
that sweetness of her bimba-red lip—even though the mind is deeply absorbed
in contemplation fixed on her, alas, how does the disease of separation continue to grow?

The shoot of her eyebrow the bow, her undulating side-glances
the arrows, her ear-lobe the string: did Smara thus deliver
his world-conquering weapons unto her,
the moving deity of the Bodiless One's triumph?