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torsdag 10. mai 2012

Mind, the age of the wild west and Srila Prabhupada

My dear mind,
Is seems I caught you
Dripping ethereal blood
On you hand,
A perpetrator of another
Illicit act,
Killer of the soul.

I know you, evil twin.
I know you, festering parasite,
Having associated intimately
With you for countless life times.

You, sir, are a repeated felon,
Like a kleptomaniac,
Or a serial killer,
Always contemplating
The next score,
Secretly stalking
Your next victim.

In vedic times,
The rajarishis
Would have had your life
In exchange for your
Thereby mercifully
Absolving you of your sins,
But this is
The age of Kali.
The powerful rule of the
Ancient royal saints
In now only a distant echo
Of eons past.

This is your good fortune,
Dacoit mind.
In this age of quarrel
The likes of you
Roam freely
In society at large,
Wreaking havoc
With shootouts and lynching
And resultant utter despair
Of the fallen souls.

However, hear me today:

Rejoice while you can,
For there is a new sheriff in town!
Fearlessly strolling
Into the subtle saloon,
That is your sphere,
He acts on the merit
Of transcendental service to the guru

Although he may seem
Aged and fragile,
He carries the youthful vigor
Of the spiritual world
With him,
Sawed off, double barreled, twelve gauge mercy
And sixteen syllable
Quick draw purity,
Never lost for words.

I sentence you,
O’ astral outlaw,
To a prolonged period
Of incarceration in devotee flesh
For multiple life times,
With hearing and chanting
As your only bread and water.

Court adjourned.
All rise,
For Srila Prabhupada.

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