Murali Poem by Tom Billsborough

A flute of black bamboo,
Murali calls and Time itself must freeze.
As flowers bend their ears
Strong winds relent,
Become a gentle breeze
And the cow-girls from the pastures
Gather round in gentle rapture
To hear your melodies.
Oh Krishna, fill our empty souls
With joy, they cry. Nor is the cobra,
poised to strike, immune.
It cannot harm, when held within
The charm of this oblivion.
Oh, Krishna, play your tunes of love!