Narasinha The Man-Lion Poem by Michael Wooff

The bhairav raga's final cadences suffuse
The palace with an eery brightness, sitar-still,
Then silent, dead. Hiranyakasipu could kill
Both son-musician and the god Vishnu for whose
Ears, ever hearing, this mantra was intended.
'Prahlada, I hate you, but Vishnu even more,
For you burn joss-sticks to your precious god, yet for
Your own father you do nothing. Jasmine-scented
Tea and shining Persian silks alike you disdain
As salt oases in a dried-up river bed.'
'Father, Tukaram once said: 'Lest Lord Vishnu claim
Us as his own, our souls must ever restless be.'
The heretic denies this, seals his destiny:
The sudden twilight stranger with the lion's head.