The Silent Flute

By GR Madhukar

The moonlight wept, the stars stood still,

as Krishna walked down Vrindavan’s hill,

his flute once sang of love so free,

now lay silent, lost to the breeze.

The melodies that made, the rivers dance,

that called Radha Rani, into a trance,

fell quiet the day, he turned away,

to walk the path, where duty lay.

She stood beneath the Kadamba tree,

eyes like the depths of a longing sea,

“Go,” she whispered, “the world must call,

but take my heart, Kanha, take it all.”

A sigh escaped his lips so deep,

the flute in hand began to weep,

one final tune, one whispered song,

a farewell note, soft yet strong.

Then into the Yamuna’s flow so wide,

he let it slip, his love, his pride,

no song remained, no tune to play,

for the one who heard was far away.

Years would pass, wars would rise,

a king, a saviour, he grew very wise,

yet in the hush of lonely nights,

he heard her voice in the silent skies.

No flute would sing, no melody call,

for Radha’s name had held them all,

and when at last, his time was through,

the winds returned his song so true.

And in the echoes of that tune,

Radha smiled beneath the moon.

By GR Madhukar