Classic Poem

Because I have come to you crossing many mountains where the falls
of the water plunge down from caves in the stone and I have played for you
on my small yal in the cevvali raga of longing, you should grant me the gift
of yourself setting out today so that the woman, beautifully dark with eyes
that are cooling and proud and streaked with red lines that are lovely,
may have her hair black as collyrium washed until it shines like a polished
sapphire gem and let that hair left dry too long be decorated with flowers
that are fresh, she who was standing in solitude yesterday listening
beside your house to the sweet sound of the monsoon, O king of the Aviyars!