Classic Poem

Standing there in the high chariot with his hand on the resplendent support
formed in the shape of a lotus, with the war anklets shining on his legs
that have shed their anklets of bells, wearing the bright shoots
of margosa strung with the long balloon vine on his head from which
the hair tuft of youth has just been cut, holding a bow in the hand
that has barely lost its tiny bracelets, who is he? May his chaplet flourish!
Though he wears a garland, he has not removed the amulet of childhood
from his neck. Only today is he weaned from milk and begun
on solid food! As new warriors come at him, in fury, one,
then another, he shows no pride, no contempt. And for the fact that
he can grip them tightly, break their balance and bring them down
to the earth and then kill them as the sound of it rises
into the vast sky, he neither rejoices nor does he think it any great thing!