Who would call it wrong ?
This beating of the heart
like a thousand kettle drums
My mad search for You
with twin lamps
My eyes that search everywhere
for You
The speed with which
my breath increases, in a chest
rising and falling with feelings for You
Like tides in Your milky ocean bed
The rush of blood to the face
Which hungers for kisses
From you, Shyam
Why does it feel so right
always to me?
You are perfection, Achyuth
Perennial beauty which Time dare not
touch with his cobwebbed fingers
You are complete in yourself
Prince of Vrindavan
You seek to rest your head
On my heart
which murmurs
to itself Your name incessantly
Like a prayer
You in whom
everything rests
reverts
to my constant joy
and seeks me out for repose
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