The Winning of Sita

The bride sits on her velvet throne.
Her red sari is heavy with gold,
drawn ’round her jasmine-plaited hair.
It hides her smooth brow,
shining with rubies and pearls,
and her large eyes
turned within.

Her jeweled feet rest in rose petals.
Garlands twine a canopy above
the narrow-waisted,
the envy of maidens,
King Janaka’s daughter.

Mithila’s bravest princes
gather at her feet.
The bronzed arms
of two hundred heroes
flex with pride and glory.
Who will lift Shiva’s bow
and claim her?

She smiles at none.
Her veiled eyes do not reveal
her secret desire.

Twenty thousand blow their conches and ring their bells
when the first man bends to lift the bow
glittering in the morning sun.
But when the evening star rises above
the dim embers of the sinking orb,
the bow lies in the dust still,
unmoved, none dare whisper.

Then the golden Prince of Ayodhya
enters the city of Sita.
Her breath soaks inward,
collected in a quiet pool,
and the air hangs heavy
over the earth standing still.

In one swinging motion Rama raises the bow,
bends the ends of infinity,
and cracks the waiting silence.
Her eyes, still inward, see the sun.

— From The Ramayana by Valmiki, translated by Linda Egenes and Kumuda Reddy

──── posted by Lync Dalton ────

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