As the gentle warmth of spring touched the forest, Rāma, his heart weighed down by grief, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, the son of Sumitrā. “Saumitri, this season—so alive with the calls of many birds—only deepens my sorrow, for I am without Sītā. Desire torments me, and sorrow overwhelms my mind, even as the joyful cuckoo calls out, its song piercing my heart. “This cuckoo, so delighted in its song, will soon cry out along the lovely forest streams. The call, so full of love, will only make my longing sharper. I remember how, in happier days at the hermitage, my beloved would hear the cuckoo and call me to her side, her face shining with delight. “Look around, Lakṣmaṇa. The trees, bushes, and vines are alive with birds of every kind, each singing their own sweet song. The birds, gathered with their mates, rejoice in their flocks; the king of bees hums joyfully, their voices mingling sweetly in the air. Along the riverbank, flocks of birds are jubilant, their calls—especially the cuckoos and kokilas—filling the air. “These trees kindle the fire of love within me. The ashoka’s clusters glow like embers, and the hum of bees fills the air, all reminding me of her absence. The red-tipped new leaves, blazing with the fire of spring, seem to burn me, for I do not see her—she of gentle lashes, lovely hair, and sweet words. “Without seeing her, Saumitri, I have no purpose in life. This beautiful, radiant season was meant to be shared with her. The forest, echoing with the cries of kokilas, is adorned as if for my beloved. The very qualities of spring, born from love’s longing, only grow stronger. “This fire of grief will soon consume me, as I gaze upon these lovely trees but do not see that woman. My sorrow, rising from within, only increases; Vaidehī, unseen, makes my pain here unbearable. The spring, though visible, is tainted by longing and sweat; the doe-eyed one, by force of worry and grief, torments my heart. “The cruel wind of the Chaitra forest torments me, Saumitri. See how the peacocks shine, dancing here and there. Their wings, stirred by the wind, glisten like crystal windows. Surrounded by peahens, the peacocks are overcome with passion. “For me, overwhelmed by love, these sights only deepen my longing. See, Lakṣmaṇa, as the peacock dances, the peahen dances beside him. This peahen, afflicted by love, follows her mate along the mountain slope, and the peacock, too, pursues his beloved with all his heart. “Spreading his beautiful wings and calling out, the peacock’s beloved has not been taken by a demon in this forest. That is why he dances with her 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 kinds. This peahen approaches her mate out of desire. If my wide-eyed Janakī had not been taken, she too would have come to me, stirred by love. “Look, Lakṣmaṇa, the flowers mean nothing to me; after the cold season, the forests, though heavy with blossoms, yield nothing for me. Even the beautiful flowers of the trees, splendid as they are, fall fruitlessly to the ground, accompanied by swarms of bees. “The birds sing joyfully in groups, calling to one another as if inviting each other; their cries only stir my longing. If spring has come even where my beloved dwells, surely Sītā, too, is helpless and grieves as I do. Yet, perhaps spring does not touch the place where she is—how could the dark-eyed Sītā endure without me? Or perhaps spring does reach her; what will my lovely-waisted one do, cast aside by others? “My beloved—dark-skinned, lotus-eyed, gentle in speech—surely, with the coming of spring, she will give up 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 unwavering in every way. “This breeze, laden with flowers, pleasant to the touch and cool, feels like fire to me as I think of my beloved. I once thought this wind, so pleasant with Sītā, brought happiness; now, without her, it only brings sorrow. “Without her, even the crow perched on the tree cries out joyfully. That bird is the doorkeeper for Vaidehī; perhaps the bird will bring me nearer to the wide-eyed one. “See, Lakṣmaṇa, how the forest resounds with the songs of birds, swelling with passion, as they sing atop blossoming trees. The wind scatters clusters of sesame flowers, and the bee, drawn by passion, rushes to them as if to a beloved. “This ashoka tree, beloved of lovers, stands before me, increasing my sorrow, its wind-tossed clusters seeming to threaten me. Look, Lakṣmaṇa, here are mango trees laden with blossoms, their minds uplifted by the playful wind, like men anointed with sandalwood and stirred by passion. “Son of Sumitrā, see how, in the wondrous groves along the Pampa, Kinnaras roam here and there, O tiger among men.