Author A. K. Ramanujan Purananuru 111 The great black hill is a strange place indeed: inaccessible to kings who fight with spears, yet open to any girl with a drum in her hand, her eyes lined with kohl blueblack as the water lily, if she should come singing. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments