As spring arrived in the forest, its beauty blossomed all around, filling the air with the sweet cries of kokilas. Everywhere, the signs of the season—flowers, birds, and gentle breezes—appeared lovingly adorned, as if the whole forest prepared itself for my beloved. Yet, O faultless one, the joy of spring, born from the longing of love, only intensified my pain. Though the trees stood lovely before me, their beauty could not bring comfort. Instead, grief burned within me like a consuming fire, for I gazed upon all this splendor but did not see that woman, my Sītā. The sorrow arising from my heart only grew deeper, for Vaidehī, unseen and absent, made my pain sharper with every passing moment. Spring, so radiant and fragrant, seemed tarnished for me; sweat and longing weighed upon me, and the memory of that doe-eyed one, lost in worry and grief, tormented my soul. The wind of the Chaitra forest, usually so delightful, now felt cruel and harsh, Saumitri. Look how the peacocks gleam, dancing here and there, their wings shimmering like crystal as the breeze stirs them. Surrounded by their mates, the peacocks are overcome with passion, their cries echoing through the woods. For me, however, overwhelmed by love and longing, these sights only deepen my yearning. See, Lakṣmaṇa, as the peacock dances, his beloved peahen dances beside him, both moved by the season. The peahen, driven by love, follows her mate up the mountain slopes, and the peacock, too, pursues his beloved with all his heart. He spreads his beautiful wings and cries out, almost as if in mockery, for his beloved has not been taken from him by any demon in this forest. That is why he dances with her in these delightful woods. But for me, bereft of my beloved, it is unbearable to live through this season of flowers. Look, Lakṣmaṇa, even creatures of other kinds are stirred by passion: the peahen approaches her mate, drawn by desire. If my wide-eyed Janakī had not been taken from me, she too would have come to me now, moved by love. See, Lakṣmaṇa, how the flowers mean nothing to me now; after the cold season, though the forests are heavy with blossoms, they bring no joy. Even the most splendid flowers fall to the ground in vain, along with swarms of bees. The birds, gathered in groups, call out joyfully to each other, their cries stirring my longing even more. If spring has come to wherever my beloved dwells, surely Sītā, too, must be helpless, grieving as I do. Or perhaps spring does not touch the place where she is—how could the dark-eyed Sītā endure without me? But if spring does come to her, what will the lovely-waisted one do, surrounded by those who scorn her? My beloved, dark-skinned and lotus-eyed, gentle in speech—surely, when spring arrives, she will not be able to bear this sorrow and may even abandon her life. A firm conviction stirs in my heart: Sītā, so virtuous and steadfast, cannot endure my absence. Vaidehī’s love is truly fixed in me, and my love for her is equally unwavering. The breeze, laden with flowers, cool and pleasant to the touch, now feels like fire as I think of my beloved. Once, when Sītā was with me, this wind brought happiness; now, without her, it only brings sorrow. Even the crow perched on the tree cries out joyfully, but for me, every sound is a reminder of her absence. That bird, once the doorkeeper for Vaidehī, now seems to promise that it will bring me near to the wide-eyed one. Look, Lakṣmaṇa, listen to the sounds swelling in the forest, as birds sing atop blossoming trees, their calls filled with passion. The wind scatters clusters of sesame flowers, and the bees rush to them, as if drawn to their beloved, stirred by desire. The ashoka tree, adored by lovers, stands before me, its wind-tossed clusters increasing my sorrow, almost as if threatening me. See, Lakṣmaṇa, the mango trees, heavy with blossoms, sway in the playful wind, their beauty like men adorned with sandalwood, stirred by longing. Son of Sumitrā, look at the wondrous groves along the shores of Pampa, where Kinnaras roam here and there, their presence adding to the magic of the place. Behold, Lakṣmaṇa, the shining lotuses everywhere in the water, radiant like the rising sun. The clear waters of Pampa are filled with lotuses and blue lilies, thronged by swans and waterfowl, and adorned with fragrant flowers. The entire lake glows, encircled by lotuses whose filaments are struck by bees, shining in the water like the young sun. Pampa is always alive with chakravāka birds and the slopes of the forest, beautiful with herds of elephants and deer seeking water. The lotuses, struck by wind-driven waves, shine brilliantly, Lakṣmaṇa. Yet, without seeing Vaidehī, whose eyes are wide as lotus petals and who is dear to me as the lotus itself, life holds no pleasure for me. Ah, how perverse is desire! Even now, it makes me remember the noble one—she who is gone and hard to find, whose words were more auspicious than the most auspicious. Desire could be borne, even if it comes upon me, if only spring, with its blossoming trees, did not destroy me again and again. All those things that once delighted me with her presence now bring no joy without her. My gaze seeks out the lotus buds and leaves, thinking them to be like Sītā’s eyes, Lakṣmaṇa.