Classic Poem

Woman of the caste of bards, whose face glows! When trailing
down in a cascade from all the peaks of a mountain where
rope ladders hang and running through canals in the wide fields
plowed for horse gram, so that it does not matter if it fails to rain
or does rain, to leave cool drops on the fresh flowers of blue waterlilies,
their dark petals swarming with bees at the surface of mountain pools—
water is less sweet than the grace of Vel Pari
from whom you will win a crimson ornament if you go to him and sing!