Krishna, the Question Behind Every Answer

He is not a man, nor myth, nor god—

He is the mirror thought dares not prod.

Where reason ends, and wonder starts,

You’ll find him weaving broken parts.

He speaks in paradox, walks in maze,

A smile in war, a storm in praise.

He moves—yet stillness grows behind.

He leads the blind who lead the mind.

No scripture holds his full design,

No ritual draws his truest line.

For Krishna is the silent “why”

That lingers long after “how” and “I.”

He is not the light, nor shadow’s end,

But the space where both quietly bend.

Not Dharma’s law, nor Karma’s debt,

But the flame that says: “Have you chosen yet?”

He is not the flute, nor breath, nor tone—

He is the emptiness between the known.

He wears a form, yet laughs at name;

He burns the rule, yet guards the flame.

He teaches not by sacred word,

But by the tremble the heart has heard.

For when the self dissolves its frame,

It finds itself and him — the same.