(Srila Prabhupada in Golden Gate Park, 1967—click to enlarge)

By Nava-yauvana das

It was the darkest of darkness,
the flower childrens' dreams:
hallucinated hopes, LSD-gods,
aimless, lost chemically-induced lovers.
Then unexpected, uninvited, Swamiji entered.

Swamiji, the courageous:
opening a temple in a battlefield
where it was most needed.

Swamiji, the genuinely humble:
"I am nobody's guru,
I am everybody's servant."

Swamiji, the wise:
"Krishna Consciousness resolves everything.
Nothing else is needed."

Swamiji, the compassionate:
"I have no other medicine.
Please chant this Hare Krishna.
I have no other explanation. I have no other answer."

Swamiji, the beloved:
minister to the hippies,
preaching to the poverty of their souls.

Swamiji, the aloof:
looking not at bodies, looking at their souls.

Swamiji, the grandfather, friend, teacher,
guide, naughty child, pure devotee.

Swamiji, the kind:
chanting, dancing, watching,
leading, encouraging, sheltering, nourishing.

Swamiji, the deliverer:
from hedonism to Krishna-ism.

Swamiji, the innovator:
turning hippie sex-life to Vedic wedding rites,
be-ins to love-feasts, street scene to Ratha-yatra.

Swamiji, the Real Person:
serene, stately, grave, humorous,
un-pretentious, accessible, unhurried, undisturbed,
right there with everybody,
totally right there.

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