What are these graces,
these pearls,
raining down her cheeks?
Can’t you imagine, friends?
What could they be but beads of sweat
left on her gentle face
by the god on the hill
when he pressed hard,
frantic in love?

I was so shy. Now I smile for you.
The same eyes that couldn’t hold you
now admire you.
I won’t be cross with you anymore.
I’m your girl.
I’m not picky.
Come home.

My lips were parched.
Now they flow with honey.
My hair, once unkempt,
is now decked with flowers.
You’re the god on the hill.
I’m Alamelumanga.
You’re right for me.
Come home.

Just for fun, you drown living beings
in the ocean of life, and then you dredge them up.
For this flaw, they make you sleep
on the ocean, even if
you’re God.

Imagine that I wasn’t here. What would you do with your kindness?
You get a good name because of me.
Think it over. By saving someone so low,
you win praise all over the world.

You can’t embrace it, you can’t reject it.
You’ll never escape Love’s command.
Women’s faces are lamps held up in the market.
Their breasts are golden pots on the front porch.
Luscious mouths, shared honey.
We make love to bodies. Make no mark.
Warm curries on the plate, lover’s quarrels, displays of pride,
spots of shade in the hot sun, occasional hours of love,
strings you can’t break, mysterious smiles,
pain in the midst of goodness, words within words,
oil poured on fire, hopes that never end,
the space inside desire, like drinking butter
when you’re thirsty:
finding the god on the hill
is the one good thing that is real.
Tāllapāka Annamayya (Circa 15 Century)