As Rāma walked with Lakṣmaṇa, he spoke with gentle longing, “Look, O Saumitri, see how the wind plays everywhere among the flowers—those that have fallen, those that are falling, and those still gracing the branches. The wind shakes the blossoming branches of the trees, and everywhere bees hum as they move among the swaying flowers. Listen—the resonant calls of intoxicated cuckoos fill the air, and the wind, emerging from the mountain caves, seems to make the trees dance as if singing. The trees, their branches entwined and shaken on all sides, appear woven together by the wind’s touch. This same wind, cool as sandalwood and soothing to the skin, carries a sacred fragrance and brings relief from weariness. Yet, as the wind shakes the trees, they seem to cry out—their voices mingling with the humming of bees in these honey-scented forests. On the beautiful mountain slopes, the peaks stand splendid, adorned with delightful blossoms and entwined with great trees. See how the trees, their crowns heavy with flowers and swaying in the wind, are adorned with bees as if they were ornaments, and seem to be sung about. Behold the karṇikāra trees, Saumitri, blossoming everywhere, shining like men clothed in yellow garments and covered in gold. Yet, this spring, filled with the calls of many birds, only increases my sorrow, for I am deprived of Sītā. Desire torments me, overwhelmed as I am by grief, and the joyful cuckoo’s song only calls forth my longing. This cuckoo, Lakṣmaṇa, will sing again by the lovely forest stream, and seized by love, will deepen my sorrow. Once, while at the hermitage, my beloved, hearing its call, joyfully summoned me and was deeply delighted. All around, the trees, bushes, and vines are alive with many kinds of birds, each singing their varied songs. The birds, mingling with their mates, rejoice in their flocks, and the king of bees is delighted, their voices sweet. Along the riverbank, flocks of birds are joyful, with the loud calls of cuckoos and the songs of male kokilas. But these trees, which kindle the fire of love in me, resound with the glowing clusters of ashoka like embers and the hum of bees filling 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 the cries of kokilas, is adorned for my beloved, O faultless one; the qualities of spring, born of love’s longing, only increase. This fire of grief will soon consume me, as I gaze on these lovely trees but do not see that woman. This sorrow, arising from within me, only grows; 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, Lakṣmaṇa, 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 all 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. Vaidehī’s love is truly fixed in me; my love for Sītā is likewise fixed in every way.