O Krishna !
You pull me with this mantra
like a baby calf led by the nose,
like a deer enchanted by the hunter’s flute.
I come to you.
O Govinda !
You invade me with your mantra
you cling to me like a second skin
you weigh down my senses
with unbearable expectations.
You are in the Veda and in the cows,
You are in the world and in my senses.
You are in the mantra,
and still I must search for you.
O Gopijana ! O Radha ! O sakhis !
You flutter on every side of the mantra
like petals, effulgent and infinite.
You stand in the heart of the mantra
like pistils, golden guardians of the mead.
You are my gurus, I follow you,
I join you in your song, I sing this mantra.
It is you. It is yours.
O Vallabha! Beloved !
Beloved of the gopis,
Beloved of every soul !
Beloved of my soul!
You have come, O enchanter of Eros,
to tell me you have always been here,
present in the mantra.
I have reached the eighteenth syllable,
The charama shloka:
I throw my soul into the circle of flames,
the Rasa mandala of the mantra.
I have reached the fifth segment,
the final chapter, the brahma muhurta;
the dance is over and I must go home,
I must await again the call of your flute.