Ah, what a terrible affliction love is! Alas, whomever this wretch has pursued, it has left them ruined, rendering all the good things of the world useless and turning them bitter.

The scattered moonlight kindles sparks upon his body; the cool evening breeze feels like a scorching wind; the sight of lovely flowers pricks his heart with thorns; strolling along the garden's pathways blisters his feet; lying upon a soft bed seems to break his bones, and even after turning from side to side, he finds no rest.

Food and drink become forbidden, a lump of sugar tastes like poison, his belly fills with the bitterness of sorrow, and a few drops of tears are enough to quench his thirst. Even after enduring a thousand torments, the soul entangled in a beloved's tresses finds no chance to escape. The advice of friends tears his heart to pieces; the fire of separation roasts his very core; the blood in his body turns to water, and thus both hunger and thirst abandon him. The face that is hidden in his eyes appears everywhere—in the walls and doors, in dreams he sees only that beloved, swaying gracefully. Words once heard from her lips echo in his ears day and night; the pearly teeth glimpsed in laughter become a necklace around his neck, impossible to forget. The memory of those magical glances unsettles his soul; the embrace, arms entwined around his neck, weighs heavily upon his body, so that leaning to one side in remembrance, he cannot even straighten himself.

Day and night, with closed eyes, he wanders in the garden of beauty. His cold sighs work like a storm, scattering dry leaves, and slowly he himself withers, until he gathers the courage to be swept away with the wind. The master of love, whip in hand, is ever at his heels, never allowing his disciple to pause, nor to utter any word but the beloved's name.

Not only people, even the wind teases such lovers—knocking at the door, reminding them of the beloved's arrival, pinching them with memories, and sometimes leaning close to whisper, "I have come from the lane where your darling lives."

While strolling in the garden, the branches of trees, swayed by the breeze, beckon him closer, and when he approaches, they drop two flowers in laughter and fall silent, making his heart all the more restless, so that he sits clutching his chest with both hands. His dear relatives, seeing his condition, sigh in pity, and taking his soft fingers in theirs, ask, "Why have you let your nails grow so long?"

His restlessness increases to such an extent that he cannot fix his mind on anything for even half an hour, nor can he sit comfortably in one place for a moment. Even the sleep that used to hide in his eyes seems to have vanished, leaving in its place a wakefulness that, moment by moment, paints and erases countless images.

Such is the state of our Kunwar