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, Pranasrngi 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 with his words along the pathway — friends deeply affectionate, skilled in sweet joking talk, abodes of playful pastime, shining in an array of dress, the very essence of all that is good.

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, eager to behold the row of newly tethered calves, swiftly turning homeward the great white herd whose prancing, dancing hooves seem to split the earth as they move.

I worship Kesava, triumphant in Vraja, as he comes from the forest region, beautifying the path with rows of hoofprints, his garland turned grey with swirling dust, 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 makes the hearts of all the cowherd women thrill with joy within their homes, 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, radiant devotion at his own two lotus feet, and so bring happiness to whoever properly recites, verse by verse, this octet which so enhances the great joyous festival of all the cowherd women.