TUMI JABE ELE MOR KÁNANE
TAKHAN, TAKHAN
VASANTA CALIÁ GECHE
SHUŚKA KUSUM KENDECHE SVAPANE?
KÁNT́Á SHUDHU PAŔE ÁCHE
PÁPAŔI JHARECHE RAUNGA HÁRIYECHE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
PÁPAŔI JHARECHE RAUNGA HÁRIYECHE
SURABHI ATIITE LIIN HOYECHE
MADHU NISYANDA ÁNANDA KHONJE
RIKTATÁ MENE NIYECHE
VASANTA CALIÁ GECHE
MANER GOPÁL ÁSE NI SAMAYE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
MANER GOPÁL ÁSE NI SAMAYE
MADHU MÁSE MÁDHURIIR PRATIBHU HOYE
VEŃUKÁ DHVANITE KINJA NILAYE
GOPI JANA MOHAN SÁJE
VASANTA CALIÁ GECHE
TUMI JABE ELE MOR KÁNANE
TAKHAN VASANTA CALIÁ GECHE
O Lord, when You came to my garden, then spring had already gone. The dry flower cries in
dream, only thorns remain. The petals whither, the colours are lost, the fragrance is lost
in past. The essence of honey seeking bliss, accepts hollowness. Gopa’l of my mind did
not come in time, as the icon of sweetness, in the spring. With the sound of flute, in the
arborhome, in the charming adornment for the devotees, gopiis.