The sun’s warmth changes the Earth
To bring green, luscious grass to birth.
The cold, dark winter is over,
Again, the cows will eat fresh clover.
From the hilltop barns the cows descend,
Eager to see the full streams bend.
Old Vraja, the king, leads the way,
Not a defiant word the cows say.
Noble Vraja’s concern is the herd,
Riding on his back, a bluebird.
They pass through the red gate
To be together without hate.
Kicking their hooves in the air,
Jumping, and chasing on a dare,
New to the pasture and not so calm,
Young oxen are Krishna and Balaram.
The pasture meets the pale blue sky.
Green grasses sway with a sigh.
Warm sunny days bring pleasure.
But, winter we do not treasure.
Beloved cows move on, move on,
To the transcendental land beyond.
Where Krishna a cowherd was born,
His youth spent herding cows each morn,
Deep in fragrant Vrndavan’s grove,
Ox carts Krishna and the cowherds drove.
Enjoying eternal pleasure in the glen,
His red, yellow cows and some that blend.
The cows and Krishna love each other.
Each calf has an adoring mother.
Their cow barns palaces of gold,
Srila Prabhupada to us you told.
To protect cows gives a higher taste
To see Lord Krishna with great haste.
Secret knowledge only for a few.
Thank you for this point of view.
Srila Prabhupada, with you our bond,
To the cows of whom Krishna is fond.
You taught us the joys of loving cows.
To you our repeated, respectful bows.