The Flute of Krishna is all about Krishna’s flute and the poet A.F. Khabardar has tried to catch the magic and incantation of the music drenching the people. The charm of listening to the music those who have heard can only say it about. How is it the magic of the flute-player? Krishna bhakti or Krishna prem is a major aspect and a reading of the poem recalls the picturesque images of Sri Krishna.

The Parsi poet as a devotee of Krishna asks the flute-player to play the flute and to blow to find the soul streaming through its words. Woods are mute. Dumb are the birds twittering. All seem to be hearing the wonderful golden music. Such is the impact of the music that the quarrelling wives too leave it their dispute as for to attend to the call. Krishna’s magic-flute the whole world knows it.

Hearing the flute, the shut buds open to take their colourful forms and shapes. The flute reflects it with a lighting of own and the light changes just like the rainbow. The pipe is glorious.

Such is the tuning of the note that it has engulfed every home and man and people feel it restless about and keep walking about in search of the flute or the way the melody is breaking from. Rasamadhuri is splendid requiring to be tasted or perceived. His love it is difficult to tell it in words as it is indescribable. The wind no more roams in the forests. All seem to be tuned to the notes breaking, the song-words engulfing the area. Men and animals are alike so stunned to hear the melody.

The red and ripe fruits seem to be bedecking the boughs. The voice is serene and golden so able to wipe out the misery of the people. They at least forget the sorrows when they hear the melodies breaking.

Krishna will play the pipe and the things will not come. How can it be? His love has flooded the homes.

Blow, Krishna, blow thy flute !
Thy soul is streaming through its words,
And all the woods are mute ;
And dumb are all the twittering birds,
And quarrelling wives leave their dispute,
Hearing thy magic-flute.

Play, Krishna, play thy pipe !
It shines with all thy spirit's light,
Deck’d with the rainbow-stripe ;
The shut buds open fair and bright
And take their colours from its type,
When gleams thy glorious pipe !

Blow, Krishna, blow thy flute !
Thy love has flooded all our homes
And we run charm’d and mute !
The wind no more in forests roams ;
We come to thee all, man and brute,
And ever hear thy flute !

Play, Krishna, play thy pipe !
The trees lay out their boughs unseen
And fruits grow red and ripe ;
Blow high and low ! — thy voice serene
Will from our hearts our sorrows wipe :
Thy joy-unfolding pipe !
 

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