Classic Poem

You who are his enemies, be careful when you come anywhere near
Pittan of the sharp spear, lord of the mountain that holds a village
where fences of gooseberry thickets are gnawed apart and eaten
by wild cows and the yards are rough with berry seeds, where
the fearsome tuti drum with its clear eye is beaten by a lowborn drummer
as hard as he can strike, his powerful hand reddening, among
those good people who eat by using their bows as plows, men who live
without learning and hunt throughout the day, and the boom of that drum
merges with the hooting of owls on the high mountain where a tiger
is sleeping! To the dancing women that lord gives shining pearls
from the white tusks of small-eyed elephants and to the families
of bards who play ragas on their good yals he passes out
strong clarified toddy that has been filtered through fiber! Even though
that powerful man is gentle toward those who seek him,
toward his enemies he is as potent as the anvil which combats
the hammer brought down on it with great force
by a blacksmith with his strong hands trying to mold iron!