(773) Bakuler phulguli jhare pareche
The bakul flowers have dropped to the ground.
Those tiny sparks of hope have all gone out,
But to some place their pollen's floated away.
With and without light Your game goes on;
Ever You've been playing with everyone.
Sometimes honey You give; sometimes You but take it...
When flowers fall, we might get fruit.
Your chariot wheels are always spinning;
From pleasure to pain they're rotating.
That much I realize, and so is it any surprise...
Lo, the fallen bakul have returned on Your garland.
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We might not know why, but the reason is benign.
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