Classic Poem

Mushrooms are growing on my clay oven because it has never been worn
down! It stands as high as ever! It has utterly forgotten how to cook!
I have seen my wife suffering, anguished by the gnawing of her hunger.
Her eyes with their moist lashes are like rain, filled with her tears
as she looks at the face of her infant, who cries each and every time
he tries to suck at her empty breast, ugly now with no milk,
its teat closed up and the skin dry as leather! I have considered
all this and I have come to you, Kumanan skilled in battle! Once
you have learned how I stand, what state I am in, I will never leave
until I have been given something, even if I have to force you!
For you were born into a line that lightens the poverty of dancers
who carry fine yals, their rows of strings tuned to ragas,
and their covers of hide and drums smoothened with clay to be struck!