thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death
for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword
is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear
left for me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no
more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no
more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy
sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!


Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly
wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy
sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the
divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of
the sunset.

It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain
at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of
being burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash.

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy
sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty,
terrible to behold or think of.


I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear.
When thou took'st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the
well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had
gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim.