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I bow to the poets’ minds, which float across the ocean of imagination like swans traversing the fourteen worlds.
Poets wander in distress, warriors fall—but you (hero) created miracles by defeating enemies, as if rewriting the fate of even the Vedas themselves.
The pride of poets vanished upon hearing of Vāsavadattā, just as the power of the Pāṇḍavas vanished when Karṇa learned of his true origins.
I bow to Valmīki, the moon among poets, whose Rāmāyaṇa is sought after like moonlight by chakora birds (the noble-minded).
The earliest poets bloomed like flowers in elephant forests, but then Rudra’s glance fell—wave-like, grand, and transformative—like ocean surges.
The words of true poet-kings please learned men, but not others—just as only pearls melt in moonlight, not stones.
The poet’s intent is felt not through words but through emotional gestures and silence—evoking goosebumps and reverence.
Like golden whips of lightning lashing the sky, the thunder inside clouds awakens all—a poetic personification of storm and awareness.
Who forsakes the visible and certain for doubt and future reward? Only the unworthy warrior would neglect clear dharma.
Struck by a weapon and revived, one warrior ignores a friend’s call and dies alone. What value has public opinion?
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