Gita Govinda 2.4

To Mādhava, who sat dejectedly in a cane bower on the bank of the Yamunā,
distracted by the burden of love, Rādhā's confidante spoke:

She curses the sandalwood paste, and feels restless grief at the rays of the moon;
she considers the breeze from the Malaya mountains to be like poison from its contact with serpents' dens.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

As if to protect you from the arrows of Madana falling continuously,
she places an armor of fresh lotus leaves, wet with dew, over the core of her heart.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

A bed of arrows of the flower-arrowed god, charming with the arts of varied amorous play,
she turns into a bed of flowers, like a vow taken for the joy of your embrace.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

Her noble lotus face bears the burden of fallen tears,
like the moon dripping a stream of nectar when crushed by the terrifying teeth of Rāhu.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

In secret she paints you with musk as the god with uneven arrows;
placing a sea monster beneath, and a fresh mango sprout in your hand, she bows down.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

At every step she says this: “O Mādhava, I have fallen at your feet!
When you turn away from me, even the moon, that store of nectar, burns my body!”
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

Visualizing you before her through deep absorption, though you are so hard to reach,
she laments, laughs, desponds, weeps, trembles, and vents her burning pain.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

If this poem spoken by illustrious Jayadeva is to be deeply meditated upon in the heart,
these words of the confidante to the young cowherd woman, agitated by separation from Hari, should be recited.
She is wretched in separation from you,
O Mādhava, absorbed in meditation on you as if out of fear of the arrows of mind-born love.

Her home becomes like a wilderness; the circle of dear friends becomes like a net;
her burning fever, through her sighing, becomes like the mass of flames of a forest fire;
even she, alas, in separation from you, takes on the form of a doe; oh, how is it that
even Kandarpa turns into Death himself, enacting the sport of a tiger?

Even the splendid necklace placed upon her breast
she, of emaciated body, considers too heavy a burden,
O Keśava, in separation from you, Rādhā [suffers]!

Even the moist and smooth paste of sandalwood
she looks upon with dread on her body, as if it were poison,
O Keśava, in separation from you, Rādhā [suffers]!

She bears the breath of her sighing, of matchless expanse,
as if it were the fire of Madana burning her.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

In every direction she casts a shower of tears,
like a lotus-eye severed from its stem.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

Even the bed of sprouts within her sight
she considers to be a raging fire.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

She does not remove her cheek from the palm of her hand,
like the young moon resting motionless at evening.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

"Hari! Hari!" she chants with longing,
as if wholly resigned to death through separation.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

May this song uttered by Śrī Jayadeva,
brought before the feet of Keśava, bring delight.
Rādhikā languishes in separation from you, Keśava!

Her hair bristles; she groans; she laments; she trembles; she languishes;
she meditates; she wanders wildly; she droops; she falls; she starts up; she even faints.
In such a fever born of the Bodiless One, how should the lovely-bodied girl survive, unless by your sweet love
you show favor, O you who resemble the physician of heaven? Otherwise, Death will not let her go.

Afflicted by Smara, pleasing to the heavenly physician, curable only by the nectar of your embrace—
if you do not relieve Rādhā of her distress, O Upendra, you are harder than a thunderbolt!

It is wondrous how, with her body tormented by the burning fever of Kandarpa,
her heart has long grieved amidst thoughts of sandalwood, the moon, and lotus ponds;
yet, overcome by exhaustion, meditating in secret on you alone, her beloved of cooling limbs,
she, wasting away, somehow breathes for a moment.

Formerly, distressed even by the blinking of an eye,
she could not bear separation from you for a moment;
how does she draw breath now, gazing upon the mango branch
blossoming at its tip, through this long separation?