You are the lord of a fine land where in the towns that are surrounded
by rice farms, the laborers who reap the paddy drink their toddy
from the broad leaves of waterlilies with buds spreading open their petals
within the lovely fields full of white waterlilies and herons
from the reservoirs asleep on the stacks of hay and those men then
sway to the soft beat of waves breaking in the cool ocean!
Like a flock of birds winging through their home in the empty air,
hungry for a profusion of fruit, the noise of them resounding
through the caves of a great mountain but disappointed then and returning
with nothing because the fruit has been exhausted on a tall tree,
must I go back with my hands empty? O master of the sword!
Should you even give me nothing, I will not grieve because of that!
Greatness! May you always be well! You who resemble Murugan
with his thirst for war! You who have a chest that is like a mighty
mountain and day after day women long for the hour when
they can press themselves against it and their hair is fragrant
and perfect and abundantly flowing and they speak sweetly
and wear their finely crafted ornaments! May
the court which surrounds you happily by day realize how close we two are!