Classic Poem

Purananuru 113

With your wine jars open,
rams slaughtered,
endless dishes of meat, mince, rice,
your riches primed
to give according to each receiver's wish,

you made friends with us once.

Now Pari is dead,
our hearts are muddy, our eyes are streaming;
we'll pray and bless
and take your leave,

Parampu, hill of fame,

and we'll go our ways
in search of men
who are fit to touch
the dark fragrant hair
of Pari's daughters,
with many small bangles
on their wrists.