Krishna

At the scarlet dawn of history

I raised the first scimitar;

plundered, murdered, stunned

into submission; you all

Standing above you, sixteen springs old,

Shredding to tatters: your faded fabrics

of social lore, robes of rituals,

hallowed roles, cults, gods.

I stood, naked, in front of you

And from my flute to your soul,

Held eternity in a thrall.

I taught you through strife and strength,

How gains are snatched from losses

And lifetimes from a moment.

I spoke of the relentless wheels of time

Devouring and creating, each day anew;

Of action, the only truth;

And of desire, death's only foe.

And you?

You made my dark, glorious images,

Dressed them in silks and gold,

And sang lullabies to put me to sleep.