a poem by Rajaram Ramachandran, India - poetry writer, author, poet


The Sky

When the milk ocean was churned,
Venomous dark, the blue sky turned.
Here, pure water clouds rose up to the sky
From the blue sea, that was too salty.

It presented a scene of war,
Where clouds that stood afar,
Shot rain drops, non-stop down,
Like a continuous arrows’ chain.

The Rain drops

From the milk ocean came nectar,
Here, rain drops brought pure water,
That flooded the thirsty land,
And nourished every bit of sand.

The Flood

From the arrows inflicted wounds,
There flowed river-like blood.
Here, the rain brought a flood,
That turned the soiled water red.

Like the gifts from the hands
Of a man shunned all bad habits,
Everywhere the flood ran,
O’er the fields, up and down.

Flood reached the Sarayu River

Rain water flowed everywhere.
It reached the Sarayu River,
With ear-piercing gurgling noise,
Overflowing bunds, uprooting trees.

The mountains gave more pressure
To drain out their flowing water,
That breached the river banks
And damaged all the green plants.

The river ran like a big serpent.
It curled, circled, onward went,
Like Shiva’s bow that was bent,
And His seat, Himalaya Mount.

The unusual force of the water
Dragged in the flooding river
Elephants and lions in depth,
And took them close to death.

Like a male elephant that ran amuck,
A wild course, the mad river took,
Flattening down all mounds,
Filling holes, and knocking bunds.

All the cattle saw the danger,
And dared not to go near
The over-flowing river
To drink their usual water.

It filled up the open fields.
It overflowed the fish tanks.
It pulled the plantain trees down,
All of them, not sparing even one.

The milk ocean was the one
Lord Vishnu had chosen
For rest in His snake bed,
As in scriptures, it was said.

Like this, the Sarayu River,
Carried its flowing water,
To its final resting place,
Choosing ocean as its base.

The flood came for a while,
But left the wet fields fertile,
To grow fresh plantations
And do crop cultivations.

Farmers rejoiced o’er this.
They ploughed the fields,
Prepared them for seeds,
To grow more rich crops.

They drank, out of joy,
The intoxicating toddy,
As a kind of celebration
To welcome this rain.

They built fresh bunds,
Alongside the river beds,
And clearing all the debris,
They planted fresh trees.

Swans staying in the fields,
Hearing the plowing sounds,
Flew away to safe places,
With their droning noises.

The sharp plow tools
Broke conches and pearls,
Tore field fish to pieces,
While they plowed across.

Plows killed many snails,
Besides lilies and lotus,
While they tilled the soils,
Turning fields more fertile.

They planted paddy seeds,
In between, plucked out weeds,
Later, harvested rich grains,
Because of the liberal rains.

To the tune of cuckoos,
In the forest, the peacocks,
Wherever they stayed,
They danced and played.

Granaries full of grains,
Stored in all the houses,
Marked the richness
Of all those residents.

Inside the lotus flowers,
Slept all the chicks,
While the mother swans
Pushed the lotus cradles.

One half of a jack fruit,
A hungry monkey ate.
The other half left
Was like sun with dark spots.

Milk and honey
Flowed in plenty
Like a river in spate
Across the Khosala state.

Pollen grains from flowers,
Poured down like showers.
It was like a yellow blanket
That covered the entire spot.

For all things purchased,
White pearls got exchanged.
This was the trading practice,
That showed country’s richness.

The people lived in peace.
They were all so wise,
To speak only on virtues
And not on undesirable vices.


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