Classic Poem

Your mighty hands that reach to your knees have the power
to wield a well-made goad of iron that impels
your fierce murderous elephant forward to crash through
the bolts of guarded gates and power then to restrain
that elephant as needed, and your hands can rein
your brilliantly galloping horse the moment you judge
how deep the water is in a moat hacked
far down into the earth, and on your back you wear a quiver,
O king! so that from your chariot those hands can shoot arrows
and turn scarred from the strong string of your bow,
then grant precious ornaments to those who seek your favor.
A Murugan in your skills at war,
whose chest makes women suffer with desire and is
as immovable as the great earth for those who fight against you!
Soft are the hands of those who know no work
more difficult than eating rice and curry and chunks of meat
from new-killed flesh with its aroma of meat cooked
in the smoke of fire burning with the aroma
of flowers—the hands of those who celebrate you in song!