I have none to call my own

Mine is Gopal,
the Mountain-Holder;
there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown:
He alone is my husband. 
Father, mother, brother, relative:
I have none to call my own.


I've forsaken both God,
and the family's honor:
what should I do?


I've sat near the holy ones,
and I've lost shame before the people. 
I've torn my scarf into shreds;
I'm all wrapped up in a blanket. 
I took off my finery of pearls and coral,
 and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.


With my tears,
I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over,
and borne the fruit of bliss.


The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter,
no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion;
seeing the world,
I wept.


Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder:
now with love He takes me across to the further shore.