Krishna, the lover of peacocks, of Radha,
A silvery flute he holds, sweetly, on his soft
palms.
When he feels rapturous,
When he wants his Radha to dance,
He plays music, a music of love, of Ras leela.
He holds his flute close to him,
His lips embrace the wood….
Wonder how it tastes?
His breath flows into the flute…
Wonder how it feels?
His fingers move over the holes…
Wonder how they touch?
And out flows the music,
From his breath, out of his self.
And it reaches me, reaches my ears,
Carrying the sweetness of his lips,
Carrying the feeling of his breath,
Carrying the warmth of his hands,
It reaches me and flows as a river,
Deep into my soul, deep into my hearts.
-
Sandhya
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