Sunday, October 7, 2012

The Glory of Ravana

How glorious he looks,
This King, this Ravana!
His crown glitters like a monsoon soon
from above his dark face.

His dark face
It bears down like a rain cloud.
Fertile and merciful.
A dark rain cloud this face,
cut across by the lightning flash
of his radiant smile.
And verily there is thunder too
when he laughs in mirth.

And that rumbling thunder rolls off
His mountainous shoulders
Twin ranges on which
the dark rain cloud of his face rests
like silvery snow on the dark Himavan.

His chest ebbs and falls
with every breath of his.
A thousand waves rise and fall
in that ocean of thoughts, dreams, songs, desire and hope.
An ocean from which the dark rain cloud of his face
draws water with the light of his crown.

The green silk robe on his waist
Rustles in joy
Like a verdant field full of emerald rice.
A verdant rice field fed
By the rain that trickles from his face,
ripples on his shoulders and runs down his body with life.

And from his waist hangs his silver sword
A river in spate
cleaving the verdant field
of his green silk robe.

In truth I say, this is not a man.
But a God, a Vishnu who
Awoke
Arose
And walked out of the pages of
The purusa's hymn.

This is a sun, a mountain range,
a cloud of rain, an ocean of dreams
a field of rice a flowing river.
This is the universe manifested.

And in front of him I am just Rama
A mere hunter with a bow.

In Tamil