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From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no

more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no

more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy

sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!

53.

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly

wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy

sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the

divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of

the sunset.

It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain

at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of

being burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash.

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy

sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty,

terrible to behold or think of.

54.