Classic Poem

Purananuru 231

This bright burning pyre
of black half-burned faggots,
pieces picked as if by a gypsy
in a field fire,

may it burn brighter
till it burns down to a handful.
Or rise in flames
and reach out to heaven.

The fame of our sun-like king,
his white umbrellas cool
as the moon,

will not blacken,
will not die.