Classic Poem

Purananuru 271

The chaste trees, dark-clustered,
blend with the land
that knows no dryness;
the colors on the leaves
mob the eyes.

We've seen those leaves
on jeweled women,
on their mounds
of love.

Now the chaste wreath lies slashed
on the ground, so changed, so mixed
with blood, the vulture snatches it
with its beak,
thinking it raw meat.

We see this too
just because a young man
in love with war
wore it for glory.