You were a stone beneath my feet in the age of Krita,
a flower of the garland round my neck in Treta;
in Dwarpara the little monkey I played with on me knee,
and in Kali, as a man, you came to worship at my feet.
The wheel of time revolves in endlessness,
ages melt into dust,
and as Krita renews the golden age,
an angel soaring in subtle space you became
to sing my praises.
Through Treta and Dwarpara
you circled ever closer to me,
like a moth circles the flame,
until Kali again returns to Krita,
and consumed in the timeless flame of love,
we will meet forever, at last,
in that place
where we becomes one.
© 2005 Michael Kovitz