To The King

Today I lay down my crown,

But know this, I am no king.

The real King is the one

Whose one hand holds a zither,

Close to his heart

His heart the source of his muse;

And whose other hand rises high

When tricky notes take place

And his voice lifts souls

That lie in faraway lands & across.

The real King is the one

Who worships a swan riding goddess -

She be who holds a veena across her bosom

Plucking the strings with a cosmic radiance;

She be who holds up her hand

In a gesture of eternal blessing;

She be who gives knowledge

As a song which was born from our voices.

The real King is the one

Whose name is now known far across -

Let me say, the Milky Way,

Because music resided in the strings

Long before they were tied, then plucked,

And once they were so -

The whole of Cosmos listened to it

In a quiet broken only by an applause.

I may rule no kingdom,

But I humble my honor unto the King.