Contemplation

He rests on Śeṣa, the jeweled and vast,

On hoods that shimmer from ages past;

In yogic sleep, yet worlds awake,

The source from whom all causes take.

Upon His chest the Kaustubha gleams,

Where Śrī abides and fortune streams;

That sacred space, serene and wide,

Holds every aim of life inside.

Lotus-eyed Lord, with mercy deep,

Whose glances wake the souls that sleep;

One sideward look, compassionate,

Lifts those whom time would suffocate.

Upon His cheeks a moonlight smile,

That stills all fears and halts the while;

Unspoken words His silence sings,

A balm beyond all uttered things.

Upon His lips a nectar trace,

The first pure drop of endless grace;

From Him flows life, from Him release,

An ocean poured in gentle peace.

His chin stands firm, like Meru tall,

The root where righteous pathways call;

There steadiness and wisdom meet,

Where truth and courage kiss His feet.

His neck bears lines that softly show

The worlds He guards both high and low;

No pride resides, no “I” is born—

Only the joy of being sworn.

His yellow silk in breezes plays,

Time itself slows before His gaze;

From navel-lotus Brahmā rose—

I bow to Him from whom all flows.

A sidelong glance, both fire and flame,

Consumes ignorance, burns the chain;

That gaze is grace, that gaze is might,

A whirling spark that births the light.

In brow and eye, in playful turn,

Compassion glows while freedoms burn;

One fleeting sight, one blessed view,

And bonds are cut clean through and through.

His waist in gentle triple bend,

Where grace and stillness sweetly blend;

No weight of form, no rigid frame—

His posture play, His play the same.

Within His hand the flute rests fair,

As nectar poured through open air;

Its sound enchants the threefold sphere,

Till even silence learns to hear.

Above, the cloth of tranquil white;

Below, the gold of living light;

Though contrasts seem to stand apart,

They merge as one in truth’s own art.

So calm His form, yet fire within;

So soft His smile, yet fears grow thin;

Both child and sage, both near and vast—

Eternal, new, first and last.

To Hari thus, forever fresh,

Beyond all name, beyond all mesh,

I bow, I sing, I place my word

As flowers at the Feet adored.