Classic Poem

Ruler of Stallion Mountain which no one mounts, where Kuravan
men of the hills have planted the tiny thick-sheathed millet
without any need to plow on a wide slope grown with bamboo as
a waterfall roars, as pepper plants grow where the dry earth was plowed up
by fierce boars and their sows and offspring so that the rich tubers
of flowering kantal shone uprooted, and now choosing an auspicious day,
the Kuravans harvest the fresh growth so that they may eat well. They pour
sweet foaming milk from a wild cow into an unwashed pot that smells
of boiled venison, its broad sides white with fat, and they set
the pot on the fire. Then, in the open, where it is lovely
with wild jasmine and nightshade flowers, they eat their rice
cooked over sandalwood branches, sharing it out on the wide
leaves of plantain trees that grow dense clusters of fruit!
O master of bowmen who carry sharp spears, who wear handsome
chaplets of venkai flowers that are woven together with fibers
from the narai vine, bowmen whose arrows are accustomed to being
resharpened after use! Magnanimous Korran of the swift horses!
They say that those who come in need sing of you, praising you
so intensely that their eloquent, honest tongues ache, making
their words heard in order that your bright, flawless glory
may spread, undiminished, to the farthest
limits of the Tamil land. And kings who are miserly men will be ashamed!