Classic Poem

The elephants with their dark trunks and their handsome tusks
raised on high and tipped with iron are the clouds.
The swords of warriors who swore oaths as they flourished them
for the attack form the lightning. The royal drums that received
a sacrifice of blood are with their glowing drumsticks
the thunder that makes those snakes, the enemy kings, tremble
and feel deep anguish. The fast horses are the driving wind
on the wide field where arrows shower down like rain released
by the mighty strings of the strong, swift bows. On the drenched
battlefield, chariots are the plows. In the long and fresh
furrows scored and then turned over by your weapons
of battle after you had arrived at dawn, white spears
and clubs that were seized and hurled have been planted.
And the terrible new crop, with the handsome heads bending low,
has been the many towering stacks of corpses with female
ghouls crowding around them. Demons and herds of foxes
thresh the field while evil spirits take up their guard posts.
Great lord who sits in session for singers! On that field which is
resplendent, I drum fiercely on my tatari drum with its strong voice,
with its new skin as flawlessly white as a stick of sandalwood powder
and bound with straps of leather. I have come here singing,
O greatness! Give me a gift of elephant bulls along with their cows
and their calves, with their feet like tuti drums, bulls who would
never shrink back, who wear golden ornaments to decorate their foreheads
so that they resemble Himalaya with its towering summits of gold
which rise up to touch the clouds that are filled with an uproar,
there where waterfalls roar. You who wish to be
famous, as you should be, for your generosity which knows no end!