The Imam Runs Only To the Mosque

Will you break off with me, my beloved, morsel for morsel laddu*? My dream doesn’t come to me, my bed is divided, my heart – dry, fire is rankling me. You’ll regret, my beloved, if you taste it – outside it’s sweet inside – bitter. Twice more, my beloved, your tear will run fast if you pass me by scornfully. In my chest I wear a diamond of snake, a lion-hair on my wrist, a wealth of Brahman in my head. Will someone take them, gifted someone else but my death? Ah, my beloved, marry me. *a round syrup sweet made of gram floor