Classic Poem

Purananuru 157

Forbearance of kinsmen's wrongs,
a good man's shame over other men's poverty,
honor without blemish in acts of war,
courtesy in the courts of kings:
these do not fit your chieftains,
they describe only our man.

His spear deadly,
his chest widened by the full, taut drawing
of bows,
our chieftain of the mountain tribes
wears a wreath of red glory lilies
on his head.

At sunset,
where the mountain heights
waylay the rain cloud,
herds of deer are uncertain
of their directions
in the green dusk,
the stag calls to his young mate
through the forest,

and the tiger waits
in his lair,
pricks up and leans his tan-colored ear,

listening.