Classic Poem

Lord! We are Cattan's drummers,
he who is famous for Righteousness and hails
from Pitavur, ruled by his father
Venman of the long arms, which is guarded well
and lies to the east of Urantai, that city
nobly, endlessly famed, and ruled
by Tittan, master of small-eyed elephants,
he whose favor is hard to gain, he whose
worth is so high. In Pitavur, a tame hen
calls softly and a cock of the forest
seductively answers and a water hen
chimes in and when women as gently beautiful
as peacocks, their arms willowy as bamboo,
chase the parrots from the mountain fields,
birds throughout vast marshes
flee in fear. And that city is adorned with many
fine fields with plowmen who farm the fertile soil,
letting their oxen loose to graze over
rougher ground, and then they dine on a stew of well-cooked pieces
of small rabbit and long scabbard fish and yesterday's rice,
and deck themselves with jasmine from a bush,
and play sharp-toned drums that frighten off birds and drink strained toddy
made from the raw rice! Yesterday, at midday, I was
wandering the forest, suffering the heat. Then at evening, the sun gone,
darkness massing, with my sweet-voiced . . . . . sharp-toned
tatari drum I appeared at his door,
announcing my worries and without a moment's
hesitation when he saw me standing there, without a lot of words
he told me to enter and he gave me precious ornaments and full
of goodwill, with gentle language, he showed me to the woman
of his house, as lovely as Laksmi, and he said to her,
“Treat him as you would me!” Therefore I will not forget him
nor will I think of others! May his efforts endure, dedicated
to giving, unconcerned if the omens
are good or evil, so that should
the wide world wither away or many blazing stars flash across
the sky or the constellation of the reservoir smoke with a comet,
the people will still eat green pieces of fried vegetables
and meat and boiled rice grains long
as the claws of cranes and they will shout, “May the harvest come flooding in!”