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