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The poet’s well-structured, flavorful verse, even if reaching the heavens, remains whole on Earth—such is the eternal nature of poetic glory.
The sage’s many names (Kapali, Pitamaha, etc.) evoke different emotions—fear, awe, reverence. The Lord is worshipped in paradox.
Some crave tales and epics, fleeing from real dharma and charity as if bitten by snakes—a criticism of escapism.
Officials sing the praises of your poetic legacy—its richness nurtures meaning and joy, a blessing upon us.
Whether the worthless come or the great go, if there’s no clashing of pots, the water is wasted—action without friction is meaningless.
A person who approaches without looking back, like a beggar flashing a coin, deceives. I have been robbed by one who could not even carry my waistclot...
An approaching festival seems glorious, but its end does not shine as brightly — like the moon’s rise glowing at night, but its morning fade is dull.
As enemy armies march in, the dust clouds pale the glow of earth’s beauty — a vivid image of ruin, warfare, and loss of grace.
The bees, though curious, hover without daring to taste the honey — symbolizing those who admire but never engage, often driven away by others.
When the lover is summoned, who deserves first honor — the messenger crow or the beetle? A playful musing on who brings union.
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