Descends amidst the catastrophe

Prefers the straw over thrones

Tends the grazing cattle

Frolics that “dark-skinned”

With the street urchins

Aiming stones at the earthen pots

“Trades of milk”; he aptly defies

First feed kids in the countryside

Heals the wounds with peacock feather

Melts over pounded rice of the poor

Colours all in tunes of oneness

Of his serene flute

 

Arrives again at the midnight hour

Trails tracked by the pole star

Wrapped now, in a robe of love

Walks between familiar flock,

Who know he is “the king of kings”

Preaches the benevolence

Then on the cross he smiles

Praying to forgive the sinners

Assuring his humble acquaintances

That crowd of cowherds

And this horde of shepherds

To resurrect their faith with affection

© Juhi Gupte