The Rains In The Nilgiri Mountains By Valmiki

The Rains In The Nilgiri Mountains

‘Mark the shadowing rain and tempest,’ Rama to his brother said,
As on Nalya’s cloud-capped ranges in their hermit-guise they strayed,

Massive clouds like rolling mountains gather thick and gather high,
Lurid lightnings glint and sparkle, pealing thunders shake the sky,

Pregnant with the ocean moisture by the solar ray instilled,
Now the skies like fruitful mothers are with grateful waters filled!

Mark the folds of cloudy masses, ladder-like of smooth ascent,
One could almost reach the Sun-god, wreath him with a wreath of scent,

And when glow these heavy masses red and white with evening’s glow,
One could almost deem them sword-cuts branded by some heavenly fire!

Mark the streaks of golden lustre fighting up the checkered sky,
Like a lover chandan-painted in each breeze it heaves a sigh,

And the earth is hot and feverish, moistened with the tears of rain,
Sighing like my anguished Sita when she wept in woe and pain!

Fresh and sweet like draught of nectar is the rain -besprinkled breeze,
Fragrant with the ketak blossom, scented by the camphor trees,

Fresh and bold each peak and mountain bathed in soft descending rain,
So they sprinkle holy water when they bless a monarch’s reign!

Fair and tall as holy hermits, stand yon shadow-mantled hills,
Murmuring mantras with the zephyr, robed in threads of sparking rills,

Fair and young as gallant coursers neighing forth their thunder cries,
Lashed by golden whips of lightning are the dappled sunlit skies!

Ah, my lost and loving Sita! writhing in a Raksha’s power,
As the lightning shakes and quivers in this dark tempestuous shower,

Shadows thicken on the prospect, flower and leaf are wet with rain,
And each passing object, Lakshman, wakes in me a thought of pain!

Joyously from throne and empire with my Sita I could part,
As the stream erodes its margin, Sita’s absence breaks my heart,

Rain and tempest cloud the prospect as they cloud my onward path,
Dubious is my darksome future, mighty is my foeman’s wrath!

Ravan monarch of the Rakshas,-so Jataya said and died,-
In some unknown forest fastness doth my sorrowing Sita bide,

But Sugriva true and faithful seeks the Raksha’s secret hold,
Firm in faith and fixed in purpose we will face our foeman bold


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