Kesavastakam

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region — his ears beautified with earrings fashioned from clusters of fresh priyaka blossoms, resplendent with a crown of fully-opened malati flowers, wearing a lovely sash strung from half-opened yuthika buds across his chest.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest, joyfully calling out by name his own restless herd of cows — Pisangi the tawny, Manikastani the jewel-breasted, Pranatasrngi the bent-horned, Pingeksana the yellow-eyed, Mrdangamukhi the drum-faced, Dhumala the smoke-grey, Sabali the dappled, Hamsi the swan-white, and Vamsipriya who loves the sound of his flute.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, making his friends laugh along the pathways with words that are the essence of all excellence — friends deeply affectionate, skilled in sweet joking talk, abodes of playful pastime, and shining in an array of dress.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, his cheeks lightly touched by trickling beads of perspiration, his beautiful leaf-patterns drawn with natural mineral pigments, his curling locks mocking the splendor of a swarm of rising bees.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, swiftly turning back before him, with a sweet call, the great white herd, whose heavy, dancing hooves split the earth in their eagerness to see the rows of newly tethered calves.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, beautifying the path with rows of his footprints, his garland turned grey with the dust raised by the moving, restless herd of fine cows, his silken headdress tossed and fluttering in gusts of wind.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, who with the sweet playful sound of his flute in an instant makes all the cowherd women within their homes, their hearts delighted, thrill with joy, and again and again delights the heart of the queen of Vraja.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, worshiped along the path by rows of beautiful women with hundreds of sidelong glances mixed with budding smiles, his own eyes wandering repeatedly to the bouquet-like beauty of their breasts.

May Visakha's friend, Krishna, ever grant unwavering devotion at his own two lotus feet, and so bring happiness to the person of radiant mind who properly recites, verse by verse, this octet which so enhances the great joyous festival of all the cowherd women.