Here I am sitting ’midst submissive maids,
In dazzling rooms, an idol jewel-clad,
Proud queen of a proud king. Oh loneliness!
An idol to my slaves and yet a toy
A puppet for a gloomy lord of men!
Proud queen! Is this the glory of a throne,
Slave over slaves of an enslaved heart
Which pride and jealousy keep in their bonds?
Is this true pride, to be raised over men
By swords and gold and awe of olden times?
Pride, then, of what? Of what might I be proud,
If not of what is mine alone, if not
What I myself can offer as my own?
A gift of heart, my best, my love! But oh!
A queenly gift to whom? The lord of slaves
Is slave himself of passions, hatred, pride–
Lord of the Universe, Thy slave to be
Would be more queenly than this tinsel play!
Oh glowing darkness in the whirling ring
Of peacock-coloured flames! Oh burning love!
Oh Lord, let join me in the garba dance
Of Thy devoted Gopies, let my heart
Be burnt in Thy eternal love!–
The peacocks cry, the nightly clouds sink down
Upon this tired land, this weary heart–
I feel this is my dusk of wanton pride,
Of tinsel glory over slaves. I will
Receive the burning night to clean my heart
In lowliness and hardship for my Lord
The humble servant of whose feet I’ll be.
What higher freedom, glory can I find
Than humble service in devoted love
For Him who’s Love! Oh Krishna, Lord!
Thine is this heart! It knows but Thee!
No more a queen! A servant, slave of Love!
Oh Mira! Free! Now meet your Lord!