The garish eve defied its span,
swallowing night in its stride.
Amazed, she gazed at the bride,
who eclipsed a coy caravan. . .
The groom, his brow dripping tan,
stood by a mare of golden pride.
The maiden rose; "Mother", she cried,
"Who is going to be my man?"
"Look there", the amused queen began,
"Kaanha is your groom, you're his bride;
turn to him when your tears have dried!"
Entranced, the princess divined this plan;
slender hands caressed the idol, deified-
cried Meera to the muse, "I am your bride!"
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