He holds her hand, lovingly

gazing into her eyes, her face

adorned with gold and red,

her lips shining and open,

her breasts heaving in anticipation.

He too is adorned, in blue and in crystals,

with a crown perched upon his head.

 

She holds his flute, that has brought so much

joy to her and her girlfriends,

so entranced by its melodies, that they come running

dropping whatever they are doing,

when they hear its enchanting sounds.

 

He is Krishna, and she is Radha,

and they are eternal lovers,

representing the yin and the yang,

the soul and its potent power,

the devoted lover and the object of its affection.

 

Their love knows no bounds — it is beyond society’s

rigid boundaries, beyond their own egos,

their own desires, their own wants and needs.

It craves nothing, and expects nothing in return.

One look from her is all it takes for Krishna to lose all resolve,

to forget the purpose of his avatara,

to forget his normally eloquent words,

to forget even his own name.

Coyly, Radha laughs as she dances around him,

knowing her effect on him, wanted to tempt him,

but secretly bursting with longing inside.

 

It is the highest form of love,

there in Vrindavan, on the banks of the Yamuna river,

where Radha’s hair falls in tresses, and Krishna’s hands

cradle her waist.

 

 

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