Śrī Kṛishṇa Vilāpa Suktā
Quatrains Praising Lord Kṛishṇa
in the form of a Lament
My service for Thee lost its savor—
With chanting chores I have grown bored;
Unless Thou showest me Thy favor,
How will I fitly love Thee, Lord?
Although Thou art this world’s Preserver,
Narāyāṇa the Oversoul,
For worshiping I feel no fervor
And stray from seeking life’s great goal.
Thou in each being’s heart abidest,
So why have I no heart for prayer?
Come forth from this cave where Thou hidest!…
O Vāsudeva, art Thou there?
My tongue dulled hath no appetite
For chanting Hari’s Names with relish;
Accustomed not to heaven’s Light,
My weak eyes seek crude shadows hellish.
Lord, come, O Kṛishṇa dark of shade,
To make my dim sight’s blind faith certain!
Pray may Thy charming flute be played,
Entice my tongue to sing sankīrtan.
Please show Thy shining peacock plume
To me beneath this gloam crestfallen.
Refresh my frail heart’s withered bloom—
Shake out Thy lotus feet’s gold pollen!
Pray come with Goddess Rādhārāṇī
Her skin soft sunlight to behold,
Like alchemist’s chintāmaṇi
Her touch would make my lead heart gold.
Without Thy vision I‘ve no faith;
No faith, Thy vision cannot come.
Unless Thy Spirit in me saith
Thy praise my sluggish tongue is dumb.
Why will I watch a foulsome farce
Not Mādhava & Rādhā’s play?
Why must I utter curses coarse
Not whisper ‘Hari’ as I pray?
Why forge this weighty karmic chain
Not chant with glee on japa-mālā?
Why nurse within my breast such pain
Not offer milk & ghee, Gopāla?
Why lust for flesh, ephemeral matter,
Not worship idols of Lord Hari?
Why gossip idly, gripe & chatter,
Not preach the gospel of His glory?
Why sink in māyā’s maddening mead
Not drink of rapt devotion’s nectar?
Why make such dread mistakes, not heed
The help of this dream-play’s Director?
Why crave rich foods & worthless treacle
Not eat of wholesome sweet prasāda?
Why chase enchanting lovers fickle
Not fall at feet of faithful Rādhā?
Why make complaint with keening plangent
Not praise His pastimes, shout Śrī Nama?
Why stray with every passing tangent
Not fix mind firm at feet of Śyāma?
My mind’s poor measly dust mote lodge
Beneath Thy bright nailed lotus toe
That Lakshmī’s lotus hands massage
And ease my mind of worldly woe!
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