That Dvārakā — a river with the Vrishnis and Andhakas as its waters, horses as its fish, chariots as its boats, floods of music and chariot-thunder as its currents, houses as fords, great pools, gems as its water-weeds, plying rafts, girdled by diamond walls, streets as its flowing streams and whirlpools, squares as its still backwaters, Rāma and Kṛṣṇa as its great crocodiles — now terrible with the grip of Time's noose, like the river Vaitaraṇī — that Arjuna the wise beheld, stripped of the bulls among the Vrishnis, her beauty gone, joyless, like a lotus pond in winter.