Classic Poem

How the king of the Chola country is roaring with anger!
His wealth from ruling the earth he thinks of as nothing.
Like the cool spring on Pari's mountain of Parampu,
whose heart opens like a flower when men approach him
as bards would, their hands poised to receive gifts,
surrendering the strength of their swords, singing his praises
while his hand in its might, with its glittering bangles, endlessly
grants gifts, like that spring is the girl with a glowing face, a glory
among women, so hard to catch a sight of, hidden in the great brown mansion
fragrant with the smoke of cooling agar that has softly settled there
and there she trembles like a fine cloth washed and hung
on a line to dry. Because she is as she is, the kings do not
stop coming, though all they can do is care for their fierce-eyed elephants
stationed in every grove and keep them fed with mouthfuls of rice
from bowing plants while everyone watches them attend
to their animals. Terrifying, long spears that have won their victories
on the battlefield are flourished by her brothers and their heads
are frightening, smeared with blood! Because those men are steeped
in such Martial Courage, will she, who is adorned with handsome ornaments,
come to feel her young breasts—that are as lovely as the tusks
of elephants and now are scattered
with the spots of puberty—pressed within any man's hands ever?