Prarthanasraya Caturdasaka

Mount Govardhana, richly adorned on its slopes with the beautiful hand-prints pressed there at night by radiant women who sang for joy while their mother worshiped it with rows of lamps in great delight, is now lifted by the Mountain-holder, who, his voice rumbling like thunderclouds, herds the cows to graze upon it.

In front, together with the cows, go the chief men of Vraja headed by the king of Vraja; behind them follow all the women of Vraja with the queen of Vraja. Then the moon of Vraja, engaged in various joking with his band of friends, circles the hill on pretexts, glancing at Radha, O friend.

That youthful divine couple, who give life to the world by distributing the rising nectar of their mercy, who perfume everyone with the fragrance of their virtues' flowers - if they do not shower such mercy upon me, then, O friend, arrange instead that my whole body may dwell at Sri Radha-kunda.

O Lalita and Vishakha, not seeing here that pair of forms - Radha and Mukunda, their limbs fashioned from unrestrained playful joking, moon-bright and golden - ah, how many torments must I bear! O my forehead, split open from grief!

At the joyous festival held by the king of Vraja at Nandisvara, Hari, with a sidelong glance, draws out the hidden smile on Radhika's face - just as the sun, with its rays, draws forth the beauty of blossoms from the lotus-vine on the river.

Near the hill, upon the moon-like, sweetly smiling face of the Mountain-holder, secluded Radha's eyes wander under the pretext of playful glances - like an intensely thirsty cakori bird circling the nectar-filled moon risen above the ocean.

Radha, who by her splendor conquers Rati, Gauri, the earth-goddess, Satyabhama, and the whole company of Vraja's finest women headed by Candravali - whom the Mountain-holder here adorns and decorates - what ornament, in turn, shall I offer before her?

Her pair of breasts, arranged like two golden waterpots, whose beauty outshines any necklace, swelling with fragrance - when, alas, shall I place them into the hand of the Mountain-holder, who, hairs standing on end with joy, longs to paint them with fragrant designs?

Whose creeper-like arm rests upon Krishna's shoulder, her hairs standing on end, gazing intently at the beauty of the hill and forest? It is known, it is known, O friend - restless with love, overwhelmed by floods of passion - who else but Radhika could be such a beloved?

He whose very life was always sustained by the fragrant, foaming waters of an unprecedented ocean of prema, whom she nourished here with incomparable mercy - now, by cruel fortune, engulfed at every step by the wildfire of calamity, without support - to whom but her shall I, having no one, go for shelter?

For me, bereft of that life, the great pasture-land becomes an empty wilderness, the king of mountains becomes like a python, and the Kunda becomes like a tiger's mouth.

If the body does not fall dead from this grief, what fault is that of the body? For the Creator forged it with shafts of thunderbolt. Indeed, this too seems - on close reflection - to serve another purpose: for otherwise, who could bear such a manifest weight of torment?

In the groves on the slope of the finest hill, and beside the lovely lake of the lord of Vrndavana, singing the glory of Sri Radhika and Krishna, holding fast to loving devotion, remembering their lotus feet, eating the simple fare of Vraja's yogurt, I shall dwell here for all time.

Dwelling in the grove on the slope of the finest hill, murmuring "Sri Radhike!" and "Krishna!", drinking the buttermilk of Vraja - O Lord, may all my days pass thus, forever.