The White Gandharva
I touched his white hands
With the wind of my love.
It was gentle and cold as he was
Fair, long and powerful;
From then, he came to me many a times
For always I called him with his white hand.
Through the forest, when in walking
Along the huge mounts pursuing me,
He comes in with his white hand.
He comes in like a handsome gandharva;
Following me, for my priceless love;
As an iron pin for a full magnet.
In morning mists; I see him
In the splattering raindrops too.
In the seven colours of the rainbow, too
He shines in his stilling grandeur.
Milk-white and honey-sweet
He is my full-fledged dream;
With sky-like innocence and sense;
He conquers more and more
The unravished corners of my dear heart.
He comes as the prince in clouds; over me
Over the head and eyes in wide clarity;
When in slouching, he holds out his hand,
And we two walk together in tranquil
Across the apples groves of his brimful youth.