Sharp, smooth, strong.
He smashes evil,
like a tornado through a landfill.
As smooth as a laser slicing through cream.
His eyes are like a peacock's eye,
Eyebrows like black daggers,
A body made of adamant,
Adorned with golden pearls,
His skin shines like sunlight at dawn
Passing faintly through stained-glass windows,
Flickering as the sun rises,
Surrounded by a dark cloud of jewels.
He could divide himself into countless beings,
All with such variation in nature,
Yet each would still be just as beautiful.
His voice is as soft as a flower,
Yet deep and booming like thunder.
If he gazed in the direction of Earth,
every woman on this planet
would faint for a thousand years.
It is said:
"His shadow is immortality;
His shadow is death."
Where he stands, death vanishes,
Then trails behind,
Like a pigeon or a dog gathering crumbs.
Indra is like Barack Obama
and Chuck Norris wrapped into one,
But even greater than that,
Because his domain is heaven,
and heaven is nothing like our world:
Our world of pus, bile, flesh, and phlegm.
Praise Indra, great king Indra:
May all demons fear his lightning,
May his rule last forever!
And may his mind be tempered
by compassionate equanimity!
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