The New Gita

                     The New Gita


When a little one was born,
On a bright day morn,
He who took his name,
From the teacher of Gita of Yore,
Woke up from his,
Study of this and that,
That made up the world,
And called him,
Arjun the great,
To remind him ,
Of the hero of the past,
Who in the midst,
Of a saffron field,
Asked the great one,
Why all this is done.

The little one,
Grew up like a sacred flower,
Making hard hearts melt by his charm.
To this Arjun,
The world was his toy,
And all in his house and home,
His dear little friends.
The Chubby little one,
Served, one and all,
Cups full of joy.

From some unknown nook,
Came the dreaded devil,
To fight to finish,
With the new Arjun,
The joy of one and all.
The sacred flower wilted,
In all morn and eve,
And lost all his charm.
The dear and near wept,
With silent tears,
So that the new hero ,
Does not weep.
Fought he , the little Arjun,
With the ever winning fate.

The little Arjun spoke,
"Mission mine is over today.
 Why this grief,
 Not behoving you, who claim,
 To be elders mine.
 What would be , would be.
 And any flower has to wilt.
 But those lucky ones only fade,
 When they are at their best.
 It is not for you to rue,
 Over great Gods will.
 He knows when to give ,
 And When to take."

 Those with tears in their eyes,
 Who stood round the little one,
 Were aghast.
 For it was the New Gita,
 From Arjun to the Lord.

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The New Gita

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