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.