On the lovely plateaus, the forest trees, stirred by the wind’s force, scatter their blossoms across the earth. “Look, Saumitri,” said Rama, “how everywhere the wind seems to play with the flowers—those that have fallen, those still falling, and those clinging to the branches.” As the wind shakes the blossoming trees, bees hum all around, moving among the swaying flowers. The intoxicated cuckoos call out with resonant voices, and the wind, emerging from the mountain caves, makes the trees seem to dance, as if singing. The wind shakes the trees intensely from all sides, their branch-tips entwined, making them appear woven together. Cool as sandalwood and pleasant to the touch, this wind carries a sacred fragrance and soothes all fatigue. Trees, shaken by the breeze, seem to cry out, while bees hum in harmony within the honey-scented forests. On the beautiful slopes, the mountain peaks, adorned with delightful blossoms and entwined with great trees, stand out splendidly. The trees, their crowns covered with flowers and swaying in the wind, adorned by bees as ornaments, seem to be sung about. “See, everywhere, the karṇikāra trees are fully blossomed,” Rama continued, “shining like men clad in yellow garments, covered with gold.” Yet, as spring resounds with the calls of many birds, his grief only deepened. “This season, Saumitri, intensifies my sorrow, deprived as I am of Sita. Desire torments me, overwhelmed by sorrow, and the joyful cuckoo, singing, calls to me.” The cuckoo’s call in the lovely forest stream, seized by love, only made Rama grieve more. He remembered, “Once, hearing its call while at the hermitage, my beloved happily called me, deeply delighted.” All around, trees, bushes, and vines were filled with many kinds of birds, each singing their varied songs. Birds, mingling with their mates, rejoiced in their own flocks, and the king of bees was delighted, their voices sweet. On the riverbank, flocks of birds were joyful, with the loud calls of cuckoos and the songs of male kokilas. The trees, which kindled the fire of love in Rama, resounded—the ashoka’s clusters glowed like embers, and the hum of bees filled the air. “The fire of spring, with its red-tipped new leaves, will surely burn me, for I do not see her—she of delicate lashes, lovely hair, and gentle speech. Without seeing her, Saumitri, I have no purpose in life; this season, so beautiful and bright, was meant for her. The forest, filled with kokila cries, is adorned for my beloved, O faultless one; the qualities of spring, born of love’s longing, are increasing. This fire of grief will soon consume me, as I gaze on these lovely trees but do not see that woman. This sorrow, arising within, will only grow; Vaidehī, unseen, increases my pain here.” “Spring, though visible, is tainted by sweat and longing; that doe-eyed one, by force of worry and grief, torments me. The cruel wind of the Chaitra forest torments me, Saumitri; see how the peacocks shine, dancing here and there. With their wings stirred by the wind, like crystal windows, these peacocks, surrounded by peahens, are overcome with passion. For me, overwhelmed by love, these sights only increase my longing. See, Lakshmana, as the peacock dances, the peahen dances beside him. This peahen, afflicted by love, follows her mate on the mountain slope; likewise, the peacock pursues his beloved with his heart.” “Spreading his beautiful wings, as if mocking with his cries, the peacock’s beloved has surely not been taken by a demon in this forest. That is why he dances with his beloved in these delightful woods; but for me, living without her in this season of flowers is unbearable. See, Lakṣmaṇa, how passion stirs even among creatures of other species: this peahen approaches her mate out of desire. If she had not been abducted, my wide-eyed Janakī, too, would have come to me, stirred by love.” “See, Lakṣmaṇa, the flowers are fruitless for me; after the cold season, the forests, though heavy with blossoms, yield nothing. Even the beautiful flowers of the trees, though splendid, fall to the ground fruitlessly, together with swarms of bees. The birds sing joyfully in groups, calling to one another as if inviting each other; their cries stir my longing. If spring has come even where my beloved dwells, surely Sītā, too, is helpless and grieves as I do. Surely spring does not touch the place where she is; how could the dark-eyed Sītā endure without me? Or perhaps spring does come where my beloved is; what will the lovely-waisted one do, scorned by others?” “My beloved, dark-skinned, lotus-eyed, gentle in speech—surely, upon the arrival of spring, she will abandon her life. A firm conviction turns in my heart: Sītā, so virtuous, cannot endure my absence.