Classic Poem

Fragrant with the rains is his chaplet of laburnum. The garland
against the beautiful hue of his chest is of laburnum too.
He rides upon a pure white bull and it is said
his magnificent standard displays that same bull.
Poison has made his throat lovely. For that poison,
praise is chanted by the Brahmins who recite the Vedas.
Part of him has the form of a woman and that form
he can absorb, should he wish to hide it. And it becomes hidden!
The crescent moon shines on his forehead. For that crescent of the moon,
praises are chanted by his followers, the eighteen Ganas.
So he is, he who is shelter for all living beings,
in whose jar water never fails.
Resplendent with matted hair he practices arduous tapas.