A Poet to a Dancer

Purananuru 103

A one-headed drum
hangs on one side of you,
a hollow drum
on the other;

your rice-bowl is turned
face down, waiting
for someone to turn it over
and fill it;

you wait on the edge
of this desert,
and you've few bangles
on your wrist.

If you wish to go,
he is not far
from here:

Anci, man of many spears,
is at battle,
and as he sets fire
to enemy camps,
black battle-smoke
swirls around his young elephants
like mists
around mountain peaks.


and forever your bowl
will glisten
with meat
larded and melting
like cakes of softest tallow.

He has the strength
to protect and care
though the times are troubled.

Bless him,
his works.
Author of original: 
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.