40th anniversary of ISKCON

[Guest guest]

Please accept my humble obeisances. All glories to Srila Prabhupada.

 

On the day of 40th anniversary of ISKCON I cannot help but send out this

most wonderful poem by HG Kalakantha Prabhu, which kind of says it all.

 

Your servant,

Madana-mohana das

 

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A Poem For Srila Prabhupada

(published in BTG 1996)

 

By Kalakantha Dasa

 

You could have stayed in Vrndavana,

Where chanting is most sweet,

Or moved to holy Navadvipa,

In spiritual retreat.

 

Your Godbrothers had temples there

With room enough for you

To sit and preach each Gaura Purnima

To a visitor or two.

 

You could have said, “It’s Krsna's will—

My visa was denied;

I may have failed, but now I know,

At least, that I have tried.”

 

Your patron said you’d die abroad;

Your Godbrother just scoffed;

You could have said, “Who’ll meet the boat

And guide me safely off?”

 

You could have had one look at us

And said, “What have I done?”

And caught the next boat back to home,

Unblamed by anyone.

 

“The Westerners,” you could have said,

“Can go to hell and stay.”

Who would have disagreed with you?

We were well on our way.

 

Instead you laid your final years

Like flowers at Krsna's feet,

Siddhanta’s smile your hidden guide,

Thakura’s vision in reach.

 

Producing eighty volumes

As you guided us along,

You showed us how to cook prasäda

And preach Lord Krsna's song.

 

And as we preach, the boys and girls

>From every land on earth

Come forth to serve you, Prabhupada,

Renewed in second birth.

 

I could have been a doctor,

Had I but stayed in school;

Might have made a couple million,

Built a fancy house and pool.

 

I could have written novels,

Legislated laws and rules;

I could have been a music star;

I could have just been cool.

 

Instead I laid my youthful years

Like flowers at your feet;

Malpouras caused my interest,

Samosas my defeat.

 

My Dad said, “Son, you’re brainwashed!”

My friend said, “You’re a fool!”

My shortfalls as a Vaisnava

Numbered many, victories few.

 

Reflecting on my bygone youth,

(As at mid-life one is prone,)

I wouldn’t trade your glance for gold,

Your words for precious stones.

 

This morning on the japa trail,

The northern star shone down;

So fixed and true, it seemed like you,

With devas circling round.

 

But dawn concealed that heavenly stage

And lit a wintry scene,

Of all I am, and all you are,

And all that lies between.

 

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