Classic Poem

They tell me that Piciron lives in the good land of the southern king
where a woman of the cowherd caste makes porridge, dropping into white
curds white petals of the velai flower whose blossoms grow
in their profusion along the streets strewn with cow dung
and then she cooks up a cereal of forked-eared pounded millet,
boiled with fine tamarind mash so that laborers who pick beans
may eat them both and to their heart's content. That news keeps me alive.
At a time when I was rich, he remained
there, distant! but he will not stay away in my time of pain.