Your feet, so perfect for staging passion plays,
are more lovely than hibiscus, and are my heart’s delight;
Say the word, soft-spoken girl, and I’ll paint them with lac,
a passionate scarlet, shiny and bright.
O my beloved, my sweetheart, please,
Don’t be angry, please be fair.
Love’s flames consume my heart.
A lotus is your mouth—
let me drink the mead from there.

To purge me of passion’s potent poison,
place your noble foot upon my head, a crowning jewel;
Thus to relieve me of the injuries I’ve endured,
scorched by love, as by the sun, deadly and cruel.
O my beloved, my sweetheart, please,
Don’t be angry, please be fair.
Love’s flames consume my heart.
A lotus is your mouth—
let me drink the mead from there.

Thus Krishna spoke to Radha: flattering words,
angry-woman-appeasing, pleasing and clever,
As embellished by the poet Jaya·deva—
May his sweet speech abide forever.
O my beloved, my sweetheart, please,
Don’t be angry, please be fair.
Love’s flames consume my heart.
A lotus is your mouth—
let me drink the mead from there.