04 Cries Beneath the Shackles
The Supreme Pastimes — The Divine Arrival
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Midnight shriek and iron clatter,  

The gates swing closed like fate’s cruel laughter.  

Kaṁsa wakes with breath of dread,  

"The hour is born that strikes me dead!"



Devakī weeps with trembling plea,  

“Spare this child, let her be free.  

A daughter, not your destined bane—  

Have mercy, let her soul remain.”



But he crushed her hopes on stone,  

Cries of blood where love had shone.  

Yet the sky revealed her form—  

Durgā rose in thunderstorm.



Eight-armed goddess in the sky,  

With blazing arms and battle cry.  

Demigods descend in praise,  

As Kaṁsa trembles, lost in haze.



He weeps and kneels in shame’s dark flood,  

“My crimes have soaked my hands in blood.  

But soul is soul—forever whole,  

Not chained by death, nor body’s role.”



But he crushed her hopes on stone,  

Cries of blood where love had shone.  

Yet the sky revealed her form—  

Durgā rose in thunderstorm.



A night of grace, a twisted thread,  

A demon bows, a curse half-dead.  

But evil’s mind shall shift again—  

The cruel will plot, the blood will stain.



Burn the Vedas, slay the cows,  

Strike where light in silence bows.  

The blind lead on with sharpened jaws,  

Mocking dharma, shattering laws.



But he crushed her hopes on stone,  

Cries of blood where love had shone.  

Yet the sky revealed her form—  

Durgā rose in thunderstorm.  



But he crushed her hopes on stone,  

Cries of blood where love had shone.  

Yet the sky revealed her form—  

Durgā rose in thunderstorm.  



Durgā rose in thunderstorm.