'I told thee of that dreadful day When Ráma smote and spared to slay. Now hear me, Rávan, while I tell What in the after time befell. At length, restored to strength and pride, I and two mighty fiends beside Assumed the forms of deer and strayed Through Dandak wood in lawn and glade, I reared terrific horns: beneath Were flaming tongue and pointed teeth.
I roamed where'er my fancy led, And on the flesh of hermits fed, In sacred haunt, by hallowed tree, Where'er the ritual fires might be. A fearful shape, I wandered through The wood, and many a hermit slew. With ruthless rage the saints I killed Who in the grove their tasks fulfilled.
When smitten to the earth they sank, Their flesh I ate, their blood I drank, And with my cruel deeds dismayed All dwellers in the forest shade, Spoiling their rites in bitter hate, With human blood inebriate. Once in the wood I chanced to see Ráma again, a devotee, A hermit, fed on scanty fare, Who made the good of all his care.
His noble wife was by his side, And Lakshman in the battle tried. In senseless pride I scorned the might Of that illustrious anchorite, And heedless of a hermit foe, Recalled my earlier overthow. I charged him in my rage and scorn To slay him with my pointed horn, In heedless haste, to fury wrought As on my former wounds I thought.
Then from the mighty bow he drew Three foe-destroying arrows flew, Keen-pointed, leaping from the string: Swift as the wind or feathered king. Dire shafts, on flesh of foemen fed, Like rushing thunderbolts they sped. With knots well smoothed and barbs well bent, Shot e'en as one, the arrows went.
But I who Ráma's might had felt, And knew the blows the hero dealt, Escaped by rapid flight. The two Who lingered on the spot, he slew. I fled from mortal danger, freed From the dire shaft by timely speed. Now to deep thought my days I give, And as a humble hermit live.
In every shrub, in every tree I view that noblest devotee. In every knotted trunk I mark His deerskin and his coat of bark, And see the bow-armed Ráma stand Like Yama with his noose in hand. I tell thee Rávan, in my fright A thousand Rámas mock my sight, This wood with every bush and bough Seems all one fearful Ráma now.
Throughout the grove there is no spot So lonely where I see him not. He haunts me in my dreams by night, And wakes me with the wild affright. The letter that begins his name Sends terror through my startled frame. The rapid cars whereon we ride, The rich rare jewels, once my pride, Have names that strike upon mine ear With hated sound that counsels fear.
His mighty strength too well I know, Nor art thou match for such a foe. Too strong were Raghus's son in fight For Namuchi or Bali's might. Then Ráma to the battle dare, Or else be patient and forbear; But, wouldst thou see me live in peace, Let mention of the hero cease.
The good whose holy lives were spent In deepest thought, most innocent. With all their people many a time Have perished through another's crime. So in the common ruin, I Must for another's folly die, Do all thy strength and courage can. But ne'er will I approve the plan.
For he, in might supremely great, The giant world could extirpate, Since, when impetuous Khara sought The grove of Janasthán and fought For Súrpanakhá's sake, he died By Ráma's hand in battle tried. How has he wronged thee? Soothly swear, And Ráma's fault and sin declare.
