Chandra Vadani

This is the top of the mountain.
We walked the last kilometer, and there were stairs,
so no alpinist heroics, but the air is thin
enough to make our heads all spin.

We look down on freewheeling falcons
flying far above the terraced slopes.

Wisps of cloud cling to neighbor peaks
like the yaksha's doot, resting weary from his trip,
waiting maybe for more messages to bring
the beloved, who wanes upon the snowy summits
that trim the no longer lost horizon.

Devi mantras, dhaks and dhols,
sussurating Sapta-shati, bellows and bells.
I buy my coconut and bring it to you,
Devi Chandravadani.

O Yoga Maya, I am with you again,
under this pale and crystal sky.
Like I was in Vrindavan,
in elated circumambulation;
Like I was in in Nabadwip,
under the midnight black and tangled
branches of Pora Ma.

I am praying once again for what you have,
with which you tantalize, but never give;
I beg you: apavrinu apavrinu.

From here on high, Paurnamasi Devi,
from this tiny particle of Govardhan,
from this place where you cover the universe
with your dancing veils of illusion,
I am praying again, apavrinu apavrinu.

With straw in my mouth, I ask you this:
Why do you separate the Divine Couple?
Why do you make them vagabond apart,
lost in thorn and snake-filled Vrindavan?
Why do you make Radha wear this maan?
And make Krishna powerless, like a captured thief,
who begs the trees and birds, and you, for relief?

Can't you make it simple, fling open wide the drape,
and show us their divine, eternal, joyous state?
It seems you like this keeping them apart.
I know it's all a question of your art,
but this Lila's weighing heavy on my heart...
Devi, apavrinu apavrinu.