To her friend
My mind is not on housework.
Now I weep, now I laugh at the world's censure.
He draws me - to become
an outcast, a hermit woman in the woods!
He has bereft me of parents, brothers, sisters,
my good name. His flute
took my heart --
his flute, a thin bamboo trap enclosing me --
a cheap bamboo flute was Radha's ruin.
That hollow, simple stick -- fed nectar by his lips, but issuing
If you should find a clump of jointed reeds,
pull off their branches!
Tear them up by the roots!
into the sea.
Dvija Chandidasa says, Why the bamboo?
Not it but Krishna enthralls you: him you cannot uproot.