Would it please your heroic soul if the playmate of
the night aspired to be the helpmeet of the day, if the left arm
learnt to share the burden of the proud right arm?
Arjuna
I never seem to know you aright. You seem to me like a goddess
hidden within a golden image. I cannot touch you, I cannot pay
you my dues in return for your priceless gifts. Thus my love is
incomplete. Sometimes in the enigmatic depth of your sad look,
in your playful words mocking at their own meaning, I gain
glimpses of a being trying to rend asunder the languorous grace
of her body, to emerge in a chaste fire of pain through a
vaporous veil of smiles. Illusion is the first appearance of
Truth. She advances towards her lover in disguise. But a time
comes when she throws off her ornaments and veils and stands
clothed in naked dignity. I grope for that ultimate you, that
bare simplicity of truth.
Why these tears, my love? Why cover your face with your hands?
Have I pained you, my darling? Forget what I said. I will be
content with the present.
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