the future blue skinned butter thief
he was born the night before ,in jail
for a crime mom had not committed.
he was sky blue everywhere and rain
not a swaddling baby in a jail’s straw
with wise men all the way from East.

the butter he had on lips was a cloud.
you too would be cloud upon his flute
its finger holes breathing your dance
your eyes softly closed to the breeze.
you are not besotted woman by river,
just a nut dancing to camphor flame,
no gender issues about the prankster
who ate a muddy universe in mouth.

(yesterday was Krishna Astami, when we celebrate the birth of Krishna)

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