Krishna, the Red Flute

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-I-
Krishna, the Red Flute 

On the fields of Kurukshetra wide,

Where princes fell and dharma cried,

A charioteer with sky-born hue,

Spoke words not old, but ever new.


He spoke not for gold, nor throne, nor fame,

But of duty done without the claim.

“Work not for self,” his voice did rise,

“But for the good beneath all skies.”


A flute he held, but not for song,

For justice was his music long.

He danced with cowherds, poor and free,

No lords or slaves — just unity.


He shattered caste with subtle smile,

A god who walked the extra mile.

He stood with Sudama, shared his crust,

For love, not gold, was Krishna’s trust.


He saw no king in silken thread,

Nor bowed to men the market fed.

“Break the chain,” his gaze would urge,

“Where greed begins, let truth emerge.”


No temples held his soul confined,

He lived where hunger met the mind.

He led not armies for command,

But taught the bow to serve the land.


So paint him not in royal blue —

But give his skin a rebel’s hue.

The red of flame, the red of fight,

The color born from workers’ right.


Not Marx, nor Lenin, wrote his creed,

But Krishna sowed the selfless seed.

And when the world forgets the plan,

He comes again — as worker, man.

-II-

When Krishna Comes Again

They built their towers, gold and high,

Scraped the stars, and drained the sky.

They sold the sea, they stripped the land,

Called ruin "growth," with blood-stained hands.


Coins piled up where forests fell,

And silence rang where songbirds dwell.

Their hunger burned, a restless flame,

Consuming all, yet seeking fame.


But when the last leaf curled and died,

And even hope found no place to hide—

A whisper stirred the poisoned air,

A flute was heard — soft, solemn, bare.


From dust and ash, from broken grain,

He rose — the charioteer again.

Not for war or royal right,

But to ignite a deeper fight.


No palace sought he, nor throne of gold,

But fields where truth was growing cold.

He walked with workers, ate their bread,

Spoke of love where profit bled.


"Your towers rot," his voice was low,

"Where no compassion dares to grow.

True wealth," he said, "is what we give—

And justice is the way to live."


He broke their scales, he cracked their lies,

He cleared the smoke from choking skies.

And in his gaze, the mighty knew:

No kingdom stands where greed runs through.


So when the world forgets to care,

And takes more breath than it can spare—

He comes again, with dust-stained feet,

To make the selfish gods retreat.


"Be as Krishna"

The world may burn, the skies may dim,

But light returns through you, not him.

For when you stand for what is true—

Then Krishna walks again… in you.


So raise no sword, but speak, create,

Dismantle greed, unmake their hate.

Not born in myths or skies above—

Be Krishna now. Be truth. Be love.


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