Hey love bird, crying cuckoo,
don't make your crying coos,
for I who am crying, cut off from my love,
will cut off your crying beak
and twist off your flying wings
and pour black salt in the wounds.
Hey, I am my love's and my love is mine.
How do you dare cry love?
But if my love were restored today
your love call would be a joy.
I would gild your crying beak with gold
and you would be my crown.
Hey, I'll write my love a note,
crying crow, now take it away
and tell him that his separated love
can't eat a single grain.
His servant Mira's mind's in a mess.
She wastes her time crying coos.
Come quick, my Lord,
the one who sees inside;
without you nothing remains.
translated from Caturvedi, no. 84
Taken from Songs of the Saints of India by John Stratton Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer.