Classic Poem

Lord of a land where on the slopes the Kuravans offer a profusion
of sacrifices so as to draw the clouds around their mountain
and when those clouds will not stop pouring rain they pray
to their god to drive the clouds away and then, contented
at the vanishing of the rain, consume millet in their fields!
Pekan of the swift horses! you who rage in war, you who generously
grant gifts! Who may that poor woman be? When yesterday
because of the suffering of my family who had been wandering
in their hunger through the wasteland, I came to your door
in this town upon a great towering mountain where a waterfall
roars like a royal drum of war being struck with sticks,
where I praised you and sang of you and your mountain,
she was there, not able to hold back a fierce flowing of tears
and her breast turned wet from the sobbing
as she went on crying and crying with a sound like a sad flute!