I am pale with longing for my beloved;
People believe I am ill.
Seizing on every possible pretext,
I try to meet him “by accident.”
They have sent for a country doctor;
He grabs my arm and prods it;
How can he diagnose my pain?
It’s in my heart that I am afflicted.
Go home, country doctor,
Don’t address me by my name;
It’s the name of God that has wounded me,
Don’t force your medicines on me.
The sweetness of his lips is a pot of nectar,
That’s the only curd for which I crave;
Mira’s Lord is Giridhar Naagar.
He will feed me nectar again and again.