I am your slave.
Bind me in tethers, Mira's your slave.
She wakes up at dawn,
sits in the garden,
haunts the pathways of Vrindavan forest
making up balads.
Fever, memory, craving --
birth after birth they trail after me --
I put on my saffron robe,
hoping to see you.
Yogins come to Vrindavan to know oneness,
hermits perform terrible spells,
holy men come to sing gospels --
but Mira is deeper, Lord,
and more secret.
She waits with a ruined heart every night
by the river
just for a glimpse