In the meadows of Braj,

Govinda still awaits the faithful

Where even if the sun sets

The forgiving moon is always full

The intoxicating flute still gifts insanity

To the ears that hear,

But to embrace that endlessness

Who is there? Who is near?

We, the travelers pure, look ahead

The past is but a bunch of lies.

Govinda smiles, it’s a circle after all.

Busy mortals do not realize.

Yet, the drunk and the delirious hear the flute

In an orchard of illusion, a fool sees the truth…