A bamboo flute He goes on playing, looks with eyes smiling,
Today in Gokul He makes sport, Golok's Hari.
With painted lower lip He entertains;
Ever calling, everyone He tells: "Rush near!"
None is not His kindred, distant is nobody;
All are family, He finds everyone in thinking.
The Jamuna, upstream with waters lively does it race;
A string of waves sway like His wreath of rosary peas.
For quelling the wicked, the righteous to maintain,
Sin's flag of carnage, its collapse to make,
He comes frequently, a drumbeat with bow's twang;
In this world a store of virtue His like is not there.
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Distant He may seem, but remote He is not!
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