Siddhartha leaves the baths
ashine with jasmine oil
and jewels, seeking Yasodhara
as she asked. His feet,
like silk, are tender
and he walks tenderly.
Opening the lotus vines,
curtains to her rooms,
the prince offers his wife
a chilled mango.
She thinks his hands
well-shaped, golden,
finer than the fruit.
With twin-lotus palms
she cups his forehead,
orchard of bliss,
to kiss away an eyelash
fallen dead on his cheek.
He blushes. Her lie uncaught,
he remains unawakened
and she has him yet.
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