Having lost His way
Madhava entered my sweet bower.

At this, flutes played and the dust of Vraja stirred,
the Yamuna river overflowed its banks.

The niip flower buds trembled with excitement.
The khainjarii bird (dancing nightingale) frolicked in joy.
A cage was broken open

and my mind flew out and up
spreading its wings into the blue sky.

The cow-maids churned their milk,
popinjays all in a row conferred
resuming their chattering.

The residents of Vraja brought out sandalwood paste
and decorated their foreheads.