"Death I take up as consolation. Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings Or old kings throned on violet ivory, Night would not come without beds of green floss And never a bed without my bright darling."
Bilhana was an 11th-century Sanskrit-language poet from Kashmir. He traveled to different parts of India, and received royal patronage from the Kalachuri king Lakshmi-karna, the Chaulukya king Karna, and the Kalyani Chalukya king Vikramaditya VI.
"They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars Who was so strong to love me. And small men That buy and sell for silver being slaves Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her, Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one, You clung to me as a garment clings; my girl."
"Love is a god and Rati the dark his bride; But once I found their child and she was fairer, That could so shine. And we were each to each Wonderful and a presence not yet felt In any dream."
"I am to die! yet I remember, dying, My souls delight — my sweet unequalled, love, Like a fresh champaks golden blossom lying, Her smile its opening leaves; and, bright above, Over her sleepful brow those lustrous tresses, Dark-winding down, tangled with loves caresses."
"My thought is all of this gold-tinted kings daughter With garlands tissue and golden buds, Smoke tangles of her hair, and sleeping or waking Feet trembling in love, full of pale languor; My thought is clinging as to a lost learning Slipped down out of the minds of men, Labouring to bring her back into my soul."
"I see her — far face blond like gold, Rich with small lights, and tinted shadows Over and over all of her.... * * * * * * * * Her scented arms Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck. * * * * * * * * When slow rose-yellow moons looked out at night, To guard the sheaves of harvest and mark down The peachs fall, how calm she was and love-worthy! * * * * * * * * The salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmurs of confused colors as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words, Wanton as water, honied with eagerness."
"My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings, That tap against cheeks of small magnolia leaves, O whitest so soft parchment where My poor divorced lips have written excellent Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more."