দৈন্যাষ্টকম্

Eight verses that end without exception on the same half-line — show grace to me, the wretched — and the whole art of the piece is in what fills the space before it. The vocatives run from the plainest facts of the birth to the most technical vocabulary the Pushtimarga has. Lord of Gokula, sprung from Nanda's body, born of Yashoda's womb; joy of Vraja, dweller in Vraja, seated in the hearts of Vraja's women; delight of Yashoda's heart, crawling about the courtyard, lotus face hidden under curls. Then it turns: one whose very self keeps the vow of the pain of separation, who loves the worship offered out of his sight, who is enchanted by the singing of a heart made pure by nirodha, whose nature is the final parting. The last verse takes refuge not in him directly but in the hundred lilas abiding in one's own acharya's heart.