Classic Poem

The woman with soft, bright hair and a shining face from a village,
where there are lovely families and thorny hedges of kalal vines and where
the reservoirs muddied by wallowing elephants are hard to use for drinking,
surely pressed her palms together in respect to the huge, immovable rock
and prayed to it: “May guests come to me, and may my lord . . . . . . . . . .
struggle along with his king against great enemies, the way to win land!”